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And wait. And wait. I can't resist a glance at her from behind, even during the rejection. I catalog this scene in my mind for later: The smooth apple curve of her ass. The deep and symmetrical dimples of Venus. The tightness of her waist. The thigh gap that's evident even when she's lying down. The sheen of her hair. I'm getting turned on again and it's starting to show. But I know enough to leave her to her thoughts. To let her curl up until she doesn't want to curl up anymore. Because there's always another moment. People talk about bottling up a moment in time or preserving a thought in amber: this is mine.While I wait for the sun to shine again, I thumb the notepaper.I feel the fuzziness of the note's edges. Consider the blue pen she used. Where she sat when she wrote it. Her stylized handwriting, where the letter "a" resembles a "2." How the descenders on the "g" and "y" drop down almost two lines. The backward slant of the letters –- like she's a left-hander who writes with. Curiously my older brother, who was much more of a ladies man than never had this experience or so he said.After telling this story I ordered some more wine, invited Teresa to have a drink with me and took a deep breath. I'm not a chat-up or pick up merchant but hey I was enjoying her company so I asked what time she finished her shift, hoping she was just working for the afternoon. Ouch, she answered that question with her own, "Why do you ask?" I almost gave up and retreated but the wine had relaxed and emboldened me. "I thought I might treat us to a meal somewhere, an early supper perhaps if you are off shift soon, and perhaps I can carry on enjoying your company and conversation?" She cocked her head, smiled and looking not just at me but through me said " Excuse me a moment Michael I'll be right back". She was Indeed, walking back to the bar still smiling that knowing way, I just felt that she was going to say yes, she would come with me for a meal. But what did I know, her.
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