Saturday 7 May 2011

Tentatrice Inconscients

(for you, as promised.)

She struts through the pub between clusters of people and I clock the odd glance but it amazes me that she can pass by anyone unnoticed. She runs a hand through her long, blonde hair and I melt, every time. I want to be the glass she sips her whiskey and coke from just to press against her lips. I imagine I can see reflected in her eyes all the times we are yet to kiss. I cannot help but fixate upon her exquisite curves beneath tight cotton and jean. Her eyes, those blue eyes, those deep jade eyes like the stone only with flecks of arsenic. She is divine in the way that only the seemingly unattainable can be. I convince myself easily that every one of my infatuations is so different from the last and this is the only way in which she is unexceptional.
I have no idea exactly where in southern France Lyon is and I could not care less, but it is not out of rudeness that I stare fixatedly as her tongue manipulated the accented English. Her sculpted eyebrows punctuate the words I struggle to hear when she returns me gaze. How did I live yesterday when I did not know her? Her silver fingers curl around her glass of wine far more elegantly than mine and her silver rings clink against its frosted stem. We are sat side-by-side in the booth, if she had sat down first I would not have had the courage to sit next to slid in along side her. I lean into the arms rest in over-compensation for my fear of invading her personal space but she then takes me utterly by surprise. As she takes a long, slow sip of wine she looks me in the eye, slides closer until our knees are touching and then lays her hand on my knee.

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