This needs to be said more often
“I want to be taken seriously dammit!”
Her skin is fair, her face, neck, and breasts, the same skin tone. If her blouse were cut any wider, her nipples would escape. Once, she told me with pride that she didn’t need a bra. I want to use my hands to verify, but I check this irrational impulse and listen to her instead.
“I mean who stumbles over cleavage, right? That’s just like . . . soooo eighties!” She flicks her bangs and sucks her lemon ice tea, her every movement a pirouette in seduction.
“Right,” I reply, aware that almost every eye in the restaurant is on us, on her, as they have been ever since she walked in. Tall and lithe, like cat woman, could she be unaware of her magnetism? Or does her power lie in contrived innocence?
I let her lead, the conversation that is, but…
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