stuck in foreplay

When he spotted her she was wiping latte-froth off her lip onto her sleeve.  She looked hurried, late for work, a bit discombobulated.  Still, she leaned against a tall stool and paused to sip her hot coffee.

He wished he had been there, at the counter when she ordered.

“I’ll get that, ” he could have announced.  “Put the lady’s Cinnamon Dolce Latte on my bill.”  Or whatever.  She may have smiled demurely at him and voiced a breathless, “Oh. Thank you.”  Or maybe she would have given him her card and offered to repay the favor another day.  He could have graciously offered her a bite of his scone.

He watched her, across the room, clumsily pull up her stockings and fumble around in her huge purse for something.  Eventually, she pulled out a lipstick tube missing its top.  He admired the way she twisted up the burgundy shimmer gloss and wiped it gently onto a paper napkin before applying it in sweeping strokes to her lips.  After blotting her mouth onto the same napkin she crumbled it into a ball and tossed it in the direction of the nearest trashcan.  She missed.

Here was his chance!  He took long strides over to her side of the room and bent down to pick up her soiled napkin.  He would help her out.  She would appreciate his gesture and his eco-thoughtfulness.  She would want to know him.

He positioned and aimed the paper napkin ball towards the trash as if he was about to throw a three-pointer.  Bent his knees, glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was looking and took the shot.


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