schweblog

I sat at the Satellite Cafe today after meeting with my friend Mary. I was finishing up my cup of coffee and sitting on a couch as a 20-something woman leaves the counter and places herself across from me and a little to the right. She has long brunette hair and smiles as she walks up. Occasionally I’ll look up from my computer and notice her looking at me. She smiles again.

It has been precisely 50 days since I last shared a bed with someone in any capacity. No real opportunities had presented themselves up to this point–all of my friends and colleagues are well aware of the fact that I am caught up in a woman with skin like mocha ice cream. This situation was different, foreign–I was outside of my normal social circle and the opportunity was presenting itself, outfitted with leather boots and snug jeans and a smile that was pretty much asking for a lazy Sunday lay with no real ramifications. It was as if she was saying to me, with a raised eyebrow, that it could be our little secret. No one would need to know.

I smiled back, a little bit flattered, a little bit jealous of her comfortably forward attitude. It was blatantly clear from the looks, the smiles, the facial gestures and her body language that she knew I was entranced. She knew most certainly that with the slightest beckoning gesture, I would be at her feet, between her legs, in her arms. She knew this.

Confidence is an admirable quality in both male and female alike. Pride is not. Long before she got started on this game of looks and flirtations, long before she sat down across from me with a knowing smile…hell, long before she as much as walked into the cafe or got up that morning, I was long caught up in the memories of a very particular girl in Lyon.

Those memories were still with me as I stood up and fought off the impulse to go over to this overconfident diva and explain to her, in the very plain terms, that I was in love with a woman that is more than she could ever hope to be. That she could have walked into the Satellite that day outfitted in a corset, thigh highs, and a pair of high-heeled boots with the intent of taking me home and doing very naughty things and that it would have all been for naught.

For I have a woman that, when she wears thigh highs, I get weak in the knees and lose track of time. I have a woman whose hips could launch 1,000 ships and whose laugh could usher in a new era of world peace. Whose eyes impose fear, passion, and incredible desire within any man that has dared to really look into them. In short, I have a woman that this smug temptress could only dream of resembling.

I remained reserved, though, smiled curtly as I got up to leave. She remained calm as I put on my jacket, clearly expecting me to walk across the room and ask for her number. Her facial expression changed noticeably when she realized that I was making a beeline for the door and that–alas!–she was not in the trajectory.

There is some humor in being a forlorn lover. And I found it today.

Filed under: love by Jesse