Her shoes matched her
lipstick. He wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't tried to put her foot
behind her head. The booth's low light poured down the pear curve of
her upturned calf, sheer tights sparkling in alluded silk. His gazed
slalommed to halfway down her thigh, where the edges of her short
grey wool skirt clapped against either side of the stretched flesh. A
narrow ladder, like a mouth, marked a taught line his eyes didn't
dare to cross. The mouth opened wider, teasing him with a broad smile
of white skin.
As she pulled tighter
on the back of her ankle, cocking her knee, her hips thrust closer
too him. Her skirt hiked higher and another inch of her slid free as
if she were being squeezed out like toothpaste.
His eyes switched
nervously to the five empty glasses on the smooth black table; two
Martinis, two mojitos and her untouched water, so much for good
intentions.
Later, she kissed his
hand while telling him he was her favourite guy in the office. The
smeared vermilion on his palm was all the colour left in yet another
familiar evening going nowhere. Her shoes were removed by someone
else that night. His stayed on, eventually covered by a blanket
pulled lazily over his half-tanked frame. He slept, one curled hand
clutch tight to his chest. He dreamt it grew mint.
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