He raised his head to drink her in. Widening eyes with plate like pupils sucking in the starlight streaming from her face. Such a satisfyingly symmetrical face electrified and dancing with the promise of the evening. Ears attuned to her throaty laugh, radars trained on mystifying interstellar signals. Nostrils flaired to huff in the ball-stirring scent of her sillage, commingled with freshly sweating skin, shampoo and – no doubt – chemical sex signals.
“God, I feel like I’ve just been gabbing on for ages. You haven’t said anything in about ten minutes!”. As she said this, half in jest and half in desperate need of reassurance, her lips wiggled in a nervous little moue. She took a measured sip of her foam-topped nut brown ale (his suggestion at her prompting), all the while meeting his eyes. This is flirty, inviting, sultry, she liminally thought. This is alarming he said to himself, in his head, almost mouthing it although she didn’t notice.
She followed up her invitation for him to play his part. “What are you thinking?”. He felt a pang of vexation. She had had such a beguiling flow about her just seconds before, but this abrupt appeal seemed forced. Contrived. Unfair, actually, an unwarranted intrusion into his bubble of passive pleasure.
“Your tits are singing to me”.
She looked startled. Like a cat experiencing a hoover for the first time. “What? Why did…singing? What do you mean?”
That old familiar friend, his self sabotage impulse, had just pulled up a chair at their table. A lazy, jealous friend. A bad friend, wanting nothing good for him, challenged by change, threatened by entropy, madly fighting for the safe, simple status quo. Seated between them, he was pouring poison into his ear and pissing into her drink.
“Your tits are singing to me. But they’re out of tune”.
“What are you…”
“They’re flat. Your tits are flat”. He almost smiled, contented that he’d finally been able to articulate the little niggle that had been irking him all evening. The grit in the oyster of his priapic appreciation of her. She was beautiful, lovely, self-assured and witty. But she had no bosoms.
“Fuck you” she said, quite calmly. Rising to stand, she just shook her head, slowly, as much in pity as disapproval. And then she was gone. He poured her half into his depleted pint. “Bonus” said his bad friend. “Kebab?”.