I was just sitting there, minding my own business, enjoying a venti cup of the café's freshly brewed Sumatra blend coffee flavored with a single pack of sugar. I had some new bestseller in front of me, when I saw her. She was standing in line, one from the register, legs spread slightly apart as she drummed her short black-polished nails on the wide leather strap of her red canvas shoulder book bag.
She wasn't exactly in the "drop dead gorgeous" category of woman or the "man killer" type or whatever other category of woman they have nowadays. This girl was more of the "silent and sexy" I guess; a smidge of bookworm meets punk-Goth meets little girl innocence all tied together with all natural sexiness. I leaned forward a little, taking a sip of coffee as my eyes followed the line of her body.
She was about five-six; add on a couple of inches with the black combat boots she was wearing. Being the punk-Goth-bookworm, she was in baggy black cargos, the kind your see in Hot Topic with the steel D-rings in some of the loops, but they were only baggy on the legs and I could see the sweet cuppable curve of her ass and her boyishly trim hips. From there, I caught glimpses of a black sleeveless T-shirt, sleeves ripped off, from between the long tresses of her dark honey-blonde hair. I immediately liked the shirt, it let me admire her smooth skin, the smooth curve of her shoulder, and the almost willowy length of her arm, all the way down to her right wrist, which was decorated with a tattoo of what I believed were small black cats running around her wrist.
And damn, that hair, that beautiful fucking hair. Long, very long, a couple inches past her hips. It wasn't cut straight. Instead, it had the jagged look of free-growing hair, if that was even an existing term. Some of the ends curled a little and my hands itched a little to touch it, to run my fingers through it to see if it was as silky as I thought it was.
She moved up in the line, got to the register and she ordered her drink. A few seconds later, she reached into her book bag, took out one of those slim black leather wallets, and she took out a credit card, swiped it, signed, and went to wait at the bar at the end of the counter. Now she was closer and I got a better look at her front. Flat belly, maybe a hint of very well-formed abs under what was revealed to be a System of a Down band T-shirt. The sleeves were ripped off, or cut-off, who knows with the style. The collar band was also cut out, and cut low. I got a glimpse of hard nipples on her modestly-sized but beautiful breasts through the stretchy material.
I gave a small sigh when she leaned down to flick some lint or whatever from her pant leg. Her gently bent posture allowed me a glorious view of the sweet natural crevice between her breasts and I felt transfixed as I admired it. With the café lighting, the shadows were perfect, accenting that tender curve, and that skin, that golden creamy skin. I think what really stirred me was the three mole cluster that graced her left collarbone. I wondered to myself where else she had moles.
As she waited for her drink, she turned to lean against the counter and I finally got to see that face of hers. All this time she'd been looking away, or her hair, that luxurious mass, had been hiding her. But when I saw her, I knew the wait was worth it.
.... There is more of this story ...