I’m sitting at a window table, windows thrown open to the sunshine, citrus margarita in blue-sparkly-manicured fingers. I close my eyes and take a sip, savoring the spicy pepper around the rim, the bright citrus of the drink itself, the warm sunlight dancing on my skin.
My earrings are large, gold hoops, glinting through my chestnut curls. My shirt is a deep V, perfect cleavage cradling a gold necklace and just a hint of silky black bra escaping the shirt to make itself known. My skirt is just a little sheer and a lot slitted—my left leg almost fully on display, hip to toe.
Any higher and you’d see my panties. What color are they? You will always wonder. You think maybe black because of the sheer skirt, but it could be blue, could be something else deep and dark.
The sandals on my feet sparkle. The rings on my fingers draw your attention as I lift a taco to my lips.
Those lips. Ever with the tiniest hint of a smile.
I place them around the taco and audibly sigh. Just loud enough that you hear because you’re paying attention.
You’re jealous of a taco. Then jealous of the chair I’m sitting on. Then jealous of the margarita.
You wish you were a footstool. You wish you were a table. You wish you were the salt on the rim of a margarita.
You’d pay to be any of those things.
But you never will. Never will feel these lips, know the color of the panties, feel the weight of me sitting on you.
The closest you’ll get is this. A description. A glimpse. An hour across the restaurant, glancing, wondering, longing. The closest you’ll get is paying the restaurant tab and knowing that I did not pay for my own pleasure. That those closed-eyed, sigh-filled sips of margarita, the salsa you saw me lick off my finger, the tacos I savored—they were from you.
And if you had my wishlist, you’d come the tiniest bit closer. Because you still wouldn’t know what panties I was wearing, but you’d buy me some and know that from then on, any day, I might be wearing yours.