He sat and watched intently as the woman on the table opposite sat stirring a spoon slowly round and round the mug in front of her absent mindedly. Even the clinking of metal on the porcelain couldn't stir her back to reality from whatever land her thoughts had whisked her off to. Her gaze on a fixed point somewhere behind him but whilst physically present, clearly she was deep in thought. Usually he'd have made a point to ask her to stop because the noise grated on him but for some reason with her it felt mean for him to do so. Besides in truth it wasn't doing him any physical harm and it gave him the perfect chance to study her face without her being any the wiser. He let out the briefest of smiles to himself as the thought flashed across his mind that he truly is as fickle as the next man. One rule for one, another rule entirely when it comes to pretty women.
Finally on some level her senses must have alerted her to the clinking sound and she looked down at the mug in surprise as if she didn't even remember ordering anything. Removing the spoon and laying it down gently on the table she clasped her hands around the mugs sides presumably to see if there was any semblance of heat remaining from its contents. Clearly there must have been as she too let out a little trace of a smile from the corners of her lips which had vanished as soon as it had arrived. One of those moments that had you blinked at the wrong time you'd never have known it had occurred. Perhaps they were kindred spirits?
She lifts the mug to her lips and takes a sip. It left a miniscule frothy residue on her top lip which she deftly flicked away with her tongue and all was clear again. He tried to guess its contents, now was she a cappuccino or a latte woman? Maybe it was a hot chocolate? That threw him all of a sudden onto a different set of train tracks entirely. Christ what if she's into one of those God awful pumpkin spice type things they sell at this time of the year? Imagine leaning in to kiss those delicate lips after consuming that type of monstrosity, no thank you. Something in his brain alerted him to the fact he was skating on thin ice with hot skates. He'd not even made eye contact with her, she wasn't even aware of his existence and here he was writing off a potential kiss because of a drink he didn't even know if she was drinking or not. He quickly decided off the back of that last thought that it must be a latte.
She has the eyes that all men fall for, childlike, large and round, they scream look after me, love me, care for me. In his earlier years he'd have tried a chat up line that centered around them. He tried to remember what he might have said in his younger years before he instantly wished he hadn't as he remembers his chronic inability to talk to members of the opposite sex without alcohol pumping through his bloodstream. Here he was now, the so called new improved sober version of himself. The one who held conversations with women in his head but only ever aloud if he new them or was at the very least being introduced. Otherwise he left thousands of words unsaid on a shelf in his head. Confidence is a false idol he never worshipped at the altar of. Well not since sobriety at any rate.
Five pints in and he couldn't have given a rats arse what he would have said let alone remembered what come pint number eight and beyond. Probably something god awful like I hope those beautiful eyes don't come with a map because I want to get lost in them forever. Does any woman ever fall for that crap? Maybe if she's equally as pissed at the time maybe? That or as shallow as a puddle after a morning's rain.
He berates himself for the boy he was and still not being the man he should be and moreover wants to grow into. He reminds himself firstly that it's rude to stare. He must have heard that dozens of times as a child from his mother. Then he runs through a list of options in his head that starts with asking her if he could do her the service of listening to her if it would help alleviate whatever was on her mind. Then he surmised she was probably waiting for someone. Finally he decides that the best course of action is to leave her alone in peace with her latte or pumpkin spice if that was indeed her choice of poison. Far better than the gallons of red diesel that he spent years destroying his mind, body and soul with.
Don't be fooled into thinking what message the eyes are sending. He chastises himself for his earlier thought, the one about how they said look after me, love me, care for me. Go away and write as penance 100 times thou shall not judge a woman's wants and needs based upon their looks and appearance.
He scratches his arms as the guilt coursed though his veins where once the alcohol would have saved him the pain. Stop scratching man, live with the unease. Life is giving you a lesson here for free. Take notes and refer to them in future. He was now the one locked in his own thoughts too busy to notice he was in the gaze or her stare. What would she be thinking if we could peer inside her head?
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