...tryin' to tell me/That it's time to go/But I know you ain't wearin' nothin' underneath that overcoat...
I slow, admiring the cut of calves above white socks. He turns, spoiling everything with his doughy alcoholic face.
My hair is down for combing when he walks through the back door. I retrieve a freshly dry-cleaned shirt he's dropped, hand it to him. He stares, says something inane and obvious, before retreating to the depths of the house, sneaking a peek over his shoulder. "Your husband was staring at my hair," I say. "Of course he was," she answers.
Beautiful eyes, beautiful skin, beautiful smile. Yes, I'd like fries with that. "Have a good day" from Anwar at the McDonald's turns into something I'm sure he never meant.
An Escalade pulls alongside, a flash of white teeth in a killer smile catches my eye. He's mouthing words I can make out, sweet, smile in response, so he smiles again, which is lovely. Dreadlocks, though I've never thought so before, are also attractive. I slither to my exit lane; he teases for a moment, flashing his turn signal and dodging briefly toward the off ramp as if to follow, then is gone. I'm baffled- is my car exuding pheremones?
I watch Sergei perform. He's partnering, and does mostly lifts, nothing particularly interesting; still, tights on a man with muscles like THAT is entertainment in and of itself.
Arm around my waist, deep gentle squeeze, inhaaaaale, niiiiiice. "You look hot."
"Do I? I'm actually quite comf- oh, you mean Hot. Thanks." I brush a strand of freshly hennaed hair away from pierced brow. She narrows her eyes and smiles; gods, she's delicious, this Tekchik. Babygirl, if I turn, it's to you.
I ask, he answers several beats later in the conversation. "Red. I'm partial to red." Really? Red it is, darling. Though you'll never see it.