The sun was warm. She brushed the flaky croissant crumbs from the crimson tablecloth at her corner table. A summer breeze threatened her napkin. She pinned it with the tall glass, half-full with orange juice and smudged with dark red lipstick.
The breeze licked at her dark brown hair, tickling her bare shoulders. She adjusted the fashionable sunglasses that covered half her face. She eyed the rest of the café slowly, without turning her head. He was still the one.
He read the newspaper. It was folded, like he was on the train, not spread out. He hadn't checked his watch all morning. There was no ring. He was eating cut fruit with his fingers, the fork beside the plate untouched. His coffee was black.
She uncrossed her legs, smoothed the sundress, and then crossed her legs again. Her skin felt smooth. She imagined his hands running down her legs. She unconsciously reached under the sunglasses and touched the scar.
There was a noise on the street behind her. He looked up. Her hand darted back to her lap. He smiled. She gazed at him through the sunglasses. He went back to the paper.
The waiter cleared her half-eaten pastry. She kept the juice. She raised the glass to her lips. The tart citrus danced on her tongue. It had been freshly squeezed.
She patted the corner of her mouth with the napkin. The waiter came back, and she paid the check. She pinned his tip under the glass.
A gust took her napkin from the table. It skittered across the ground towards him. He must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye. He plucked it from the air as it passed.
He looked up. She was looking at him. He smiled, again. He started to rise, napkin in hand. She breathed.
She rose, and pulled her bag from the back of the chair. He strode toward her. She met him half way, hips swaying and heels clacking on the flagstones. He was taller than she had thought.
He held the napkin in his right hand. He extended it, palm upturned. She placed her hand in his, and looked up into his light brown eyes. She licked her lips lightly. It was right.
He opened his mouth to speak. She reached her right hand up to his shoulder, pulling him down to her. She stretched up toward him, placing her lips at his ear.
"I need you to take me home and fuck me," she said.
She ran her right hand down his arm as he slowly straightened, coming to rest so he held both her hands in his. He did not flinch. He looked at her. Her heart raced. It was an eternity. He nodded.
He dropped her left hand, but clasped her right. He led her back to his table. He left the napkin, and a $20 bill.
***
He opened the door. She stepped inside, and he followed. It hadn't been a far from the café. He had led her by the hand silently, striding at a pace she could match in heels.
It looked like a nice apartment. It was clean, but not meticulous. It wasn't big, but it looked modern.
He led her down the hall. He pushed open the bedroom door, and she stepped in beside him. The bed was unmade, but not unruly. It was a big bed.
He pulled the covers off in one motion, and turned to her. She shuffled toward him. Her heart fluttered. She fidgeted with her bag handles. She began to speak, but he hastily put his index finger to her lips. It still tasted like cantaloupe.
