Without being quite sure why, I was walking down the street with Laurie. Not chatting, not even looking at each other. Just walking, in step, in the same direction. We happened to bump into John on the street corner. John worked in the same office as L and I, and we knew each other fairly well. John also had a pretty young woman in tow. This, too, was not unusual. Nor was that she was much younger than he. John was approaching fifty, and she could not have been older than early twenties.
"Hi, L' said John. `How's it going ?'
"Pretty good thanks, John. Wasn't that a bummer at work ?'
Today had indeed been a bummer. We all could not get away quick enough when it finished. John had barely acknowledged my presence. L seemed to forget that I was there and, after a minute, it became clear that I was not to be included in the conversation.
John's companion was also excluded. He had turned to the side to talk to L. This left me facing her. I just stood there in an embarrassed silence which she made no attempt to break.
I am a painfully shy man, especially with women. I was tempted to just walk away, but she stopped me - with a smile. She was, as I have already noted, very pretty. A little shorter than John, whose stature was further lowered by his being bald. She seemed to make up for that - shiny black hair down to her petite waist. A figure that was trim and shapely, but by no means thin. Flashing hazel eyes, which began to laugh - as she smiled.
She winked at me ! And still, she remained silent. I raised what must have been awkward, silly grin, in an effort to smile. Despite the discomfort of the situation, John and L's exclusion no longer mattered. They were now quite oblivious to - us ? Dare I say us ? I don't know her name, she hasn't even said hello, and she's nominally with John. But she's softly rubbing those ruby-red lips against each other. They glisten with the added moisture. She hasn't yet taken her eyes off me, though I've avoided her gaze as much as possible.
Her brownish fingers are flexing at - good grief ! I've only just noticed her skin. Not white, not dusky. Could be Italian, Greek, half-caste Tahitian, I don't know. How flustered could I get not to notice her skin colour ? Her fingers, flexing at the side-slit of her black silky skirt. It was hard not to look at the fleeting view of thigh this action afforded. Cool is not my strong suit, and my stares must have been obvious.
My widening eyes followed her delicate finger, stroking up and down the shiny, taut muscles. She tossed her head towards the still-facing-away-and-nattering John, flicking him a look of disdain. The resistance-melting smile returned as she again faced me. She still didn't speak. Neither did I.
Her hand slipped gently away from the leg, into her purse. I thought she would pull out a cigarette or lipstick or somesuch personal item. Not quite. She pulled out a small notebook. Glancing at her watch, she opened the book. It slipped from her fingers.
The notebook fell at my feet, open. She bent down to it, but I dropped faster. The book was a diary. It had fallen open at the front page. The name, address, an phone number of the owner jumped out at me. As she bent down, I noticed a necklet - with a design incorporating two letters. Two eletters which matched the initials of the diary owner. No doubt that it was her. The view afforded of her full, rounded breasts by the glance at her necklet was also more than generous. I've always liked low-cut blouses.
The time between the diary being dropped, and being returned to the hands of the owner, by my hand, was not more than a second. How much one can see, or experience, in such a short time. Her more-than-courteous smile only served to more deeply burn the seven digits of her phone number into my reeling brain. Would she break her silence, and say thank you ? That question remained unanswered. John chose that moment to turn back to her and say "We'd better get going. See you later, L.'
He looked at me and waved, without speaking. L walked off in the other direction, bidding me goodbye. I was left standing there, watching her walk away, still holding the diary, stroking it to her thigh. Was she trying to tell me something?

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