All the women sit in a row. Nobody wears a wedding ring.
They silently seduce me in the coffee shop.
Their secret fantasies rise out of them. Something like the perfume of their hair carried on the air to me, but more honest. It leaks from their hands. The way she holds a small object, the length of her fingers. How hungry are they to feel, to touch? How far will she let them explore? Like a blind man because the eyes are inferior.
The one with the longest fingers does not look up from her computer. Her fingers always touching the keys. She can't help it, her fingers tips love them.
Next she plays with her hair. She takes a locke, and peeling away a single hair at a time, she gets down to her favorite. Starting near the root, she pulls it through her pinched fingers. She knows exactly the force it takes to tear it from its root. She is expert at this. The follicle is quite happy to be brought to the edge of tearing and back again.
Her serene face, her stately and kissable neck but a distraction from her pleasure seeking, self absorbed soul. A photograph of which would look like an octopus. Her greedy tentacles shoot out to catch morsels of a man's love floating down. In the instant the picture is taken, she is frozen, her startled eye set on you, embarrassed at being caught red handed.
