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The mirror gave me eyes for the entire room and sheíd been staring for close to an hour now. Not that I minded, she was beautiful. Starbucks,Tuesday afternoon.

She had on a tweed skirt with black boots, white t shirt and a jean jacket. The scarf, a homemade spin of burgundy and olive, twirled around her neck to trail down between her breasts and ended, in a curl, at the v of her skirt. I moved beside her and asked her name.

Excuse me, she said softly.
Iíd startled her. Iíd like to know your name, I repeated.
Min, she said.
I felt my eyebrows twitch for a second and hesitated with a thought.
No, itís not Chinese, Min said. I always get that. Just a nickname.
For what?
Min is nice, kind of sexy.
She laughs, saying, Maybe if you have a Disney fetish. Do I know you?
Donít think so.
So, why the move now?
The move?
Yeah, Iíve been looking at you for forty minutes now, and just as Iím about to leave, you come over.
So whatís your name?
No, San.
Short for something?
No, itís a Spanish word.

Her eyes looked past me. I had the sense she hadnít heard my last words, and then, with a slight quiver to her lips she told me she was cold.

Yeah, itís always chilly in here. Iíve got a blanket in my backpack, I said, starting to head back towards my table and gear.
I have a better idea, she said.
Whatís that?
Letís take a booth together. That one in the corner.
I agreed.
Well, go get your blanket, she said.
Of course.

We took a seat in the booth by the far window. An empty corner of the place, even when things got busy. Sitting side by side, we draped my blanket across our laps in the tall booth. .

I felt her hand on my thigh. She touched the top of my leg first, firm, like a slap goodbye or a back pat. She did this again, this time letting her fingers linger on my jeans. She found the seam of my jeans on the inside edge. She traced the ridge towards my groin, stopping and returning towards the knee. I donít know, she said, this is kinda crazy. My voice cracked, no, weíre cool. Letís just get comfy. With that, her fingers raced up the jean ridge trail and trailed over my crotch.

She whispered in my ear. You want me to kiss you, donít you?

Her fingers hit my fly with a fury that made me happy to be wearing buttons. Zippers always felt like guillotines to me. She squared her hips flush against mine and using her new position, took both hands and pulled down my jeans and boxers in a swoop. The blanket remained undisturbed.

I watched her look over her shoulder at the counter. They were busy counting beans and money stacks. The lunch time crowd had long since moved through. A tuft of her hair fell into her eyes, tickling her nose. She blew it away and looked at me.

You like me?
Yeah, I said, naked from the waist down.
You want me to take this blanket away, she said, teasing with only a slight threat to her tone.
No, I donít.
What do you want?
I want you to kiss me, I said.
I donít even know you.
You know, like you said.
What did I say?
I want you to kiss me.
She gave me a peck on the cheek and smiled malignly.
You know what I mean?

Uh huh, she said, like a teacher to a child caught with another kidís lunch money in his hand, denying it, no, I donít have it. Why not say what you want? she said.
I did.
I know, but youíre still tripping over your tongue.
Iím a bit overwhelmed.
You started this.
Did I?
I was just looking.
Browsing maybe, youíre the one that initiated the sale.
Sale? wait a minute, she said.
Relax, Iím talking in metaphors here.
Yeah, I noticed.
Still feels a little cold in here, maybe we shouldnít, she said.

I trembled in my legs. My ass flexed against the pleather seat. I wanted to be with this woman more than anything. She had green gypsy eyes, the kind they say used to steal menís hearts, pluck them for every sentiment and skip off, caravan wheels spinning up dust to choke off an army. She had a pout to her lips that reminded me of old movie actresses, the way they looked at the camera as if only one man stood there snapping the shot, a genius of light and framing: a man who could make this starlet a star or turn a star into shadow. This is where the term making love to the camera came from. She had this in a natural way. She had beautiful collarbones and brown hair streaked blond Ė two days of living without a shower in her style and she smelled wonderful.


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The following comments are for "untitled"
by gogolism

Yes, Please

Great as ever - good description - great dialogue...

There is nothing more to say than that!

So Yes!


( Posted by: GibsonGirl [Member] On: June 9, 2005 )

I agree with L-dawg: see where this takes you. Fine writing, no surprise, but I have to ask, why no dialogue tags? Perhaps it's a stylistic thing, since most of your pieces lack them. Buh?


( Posted by: strangedaze [Member] On: June 9, 2005 )

gogolism: "mirror" images
ggl- First three sentences drew me in. The rest kept me. Good write. Good read.

Thanks to G-Girl for recommending.

Robert William

( Posted by: Bobby7L [Member] On: June 9, 2005 )

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