Disclaimer: All characters are over the age of 18
I work for a global business software developer and as a project manager, I am flown out to customers after a deal is signed to make sure that projects run smoothly and customer expectations are well managed.
This time our customer was based in the Sophia-Antipolis, France's attempt to create its own Silicon Valley, just outside of Nice in France. I flew in a weekend early to enjoy the town and the scenery. I had rented a small Peugeot 308 convertible and had toured the countryside around Nice doing what one is supposed to do: stare at the Cote d'Azur, visit quaint villages, sip coffee in Monaco. Now it was Saturday evening and I was sitting on the terrace of my hotel enjoying a glass of champagne before my food came. The terrace was mostly empty and gave out on the Promenade des Anglais, which was now a bit quieter than during the day.
I was wearing navy blue pants, an off-white shirt and brown lacquer shoes. My hair is black and professionally short and I had a two day beard.
Two tables away from me was a family of three, waiting for their food. The father, slightly overweight with half-long gray hair and in a blue sports jacket sat with his back to me. The mother, facing me, but mostly hidden behind her husband, must have been between 40 and 50. She had long brown hair and could have been quite a looker when she was younger. The remains of beauty were still visible on her face but were obscured by several layers of make-up, lip stick, rouge, thick mascara and some blue on her eye lids. The daughter was a looker as well: her mother's face and body minus the make up and the years. She was wearing a loose cream white blouse with tiny shorts and Roman style sandals. Her face, arms and legs were tanned. Her brown hair was somewhat curly and reached down to the middle of her back. Her legs were crossed and one leg extended about two feet away from the table, naked and in full view. Her calf was perfectly toned and slim, though not long-distance runner skinny. A big brown Burberry shawl was draped over her shoulders.
The whole family had the an air of boredom and wealth around them. I imagined they were traveling together as a family. The daughter bribed to come along by luxuries she could ill afford herself. I could make out an American accent and could follow some of the conversation, but, rather unlike most American tourists, they were keeping their voices down. The girl was playing with her glass of rosé most of the time and intervened rarely in the discussion.
While waiting, I observed them, or more correctly, observed her. I had bought a French newspaper to read while waiting for my food, but while I can cope with the French of Libération, a left wing newspaper, Le Monde's French is too complicated for a relaxed read, so all I had to do was look at her.
And she noticed. First time she caught my eye we looked at one another for a second or two, her look went from defiant, how dare I look at her, to slightly embarrassed and then she averted her eyes. Later though, she glanced again. And where her attitude had been slightly offended at first, she now became somewhat amused and playful. She rearranged her shawl while her eyes were glued on me, placing her lovely neck and collarbones on view. I looked and didn't move. Later her hand trailed over her leg all the way to her sandal to scratch an itch, that might or might not have been there, for again she looked at me looking at her.
At first I thought it was one of those prolonged flirts that fifteen year olds have with men of my age (38). You know, testing the limits of their attractiveness at a safe distance. However, I guessed 18 or 19, so that didn't apply.
