It started with a kiss. Though not on my own, or Errol Brown’s, lips.
She leant across and that was that. All bets were off.
I didn’t know either of them, or had an actual bet on a favourable outcome, but it still felt like a loss.
She’s strolled into the coffee shop; all tight-calves and odour of loganberry and plonked her busy frame three seats from mine.
I didn’t once look at her after that. Well, it’s not the done thing to stare at a lady. Not in Huddersfax, anyway.
They can look all they like, but woe betide the man returning the favour. Double standards if you ask me. Which you’re not, of course. As I’m talking very much to myself.
I carried on pretending to read the John le Carré, even though I find it a bit boring. It gives a person that intellectual quality, they say, to read a John le Carré. Though, who they are is way beyond me.
I stopped trying to follow the well-constructed plot line and began to will her towards me. It was a psychic trick I’d read about some years before, in a faded, yellow paperback I’d picked up in a charity shop.
The author had stated that he’d used the technique many a time to to tickle trout out of the river Dean. I supposed the same principles must work on females, as we are all creatures, after all.
Up until now it hadn’t worked.
‘Do you mind if I use your sugar?’ She asked me. ‘My bowl’s empty.’
I tried to appear cool and collected, but the shock of actually succeeding in luring her to my banks made my tongue turn to rubber.
After sounding very much as if I was gargling porridge, I passed her the sugar bowl that sat in the middle of my table.
She smiled at me in the same manner as a mother does a defective son and returned to her table with a, ‘thanks.’
Some moments later, a tall man, with the surety of his build and looks, plonked his jeaned arse next to her, said something about the Sahara desert and a jewelled moon and then snogged her face off.
Maybe next time I’ll start with trout and work my way up the food chain.