Heels. High. 3 inches, maybe higher. Black, patent. Red soles. An expensive shoe. A peep toe. Perfectly pedicured and blush pink.

Slender ankles, shapely calves. Smooth skin.

A modest skirt length, to the knee. A slender shape, slightly rounded hips.

Graceful fingers drumming quietly on the surface of the bar, conservatively French manicured nails. One ring on the right hand, a series of stacked platinum bands.

Lithely toned arms, a paper thin blouse revealing a hint of a satiny black bra and nicely full breasts. Brunette hair breaking her shoulders.

She is like her.

Her legs are crossed tightly at the knee, facing away from me. Is she aware of me studying her? I place my hand close to hers, she does not move away. I see her glance in my direction, through the curtain of her hair. Almost imperceptibly, she flicks her hair, getting a better glance at me. I watch her uncross and recross her legs, now they are nearly facing me. She gives me a mixed signal by looking at her watch, I can see her lips compress slightly, as if she did not intend to be alone tonight. I shift in my seat, facing my body more toward her to see if the invitation given by the direction of her legs is still open.

I notice her turn off her phone. She uses her left hand. Like me. Not like her. Do I want her? She tucks her phone into her purse, she turns her body to face mine. Dark lashes against fair skin, across high cheekbones, above full lips and a slight smile. When she looks at me, her eyes hold an awareness of who she is, of where she is, of what I want.

"Bobby." I mumble, and try to repeat myself, "My name, it's, um, Bobby." Even though I hear it, I cannot ever seem to stop the stumble in my voice.

"Alodie." She says, her voice slightly French sounding, like her name. Not like her.

"Are you waiting for someone?" I ask.

"No." She replies, holding my eyes with hers. She does not look at her watch, she does not look at her purse where she placed her phone. If she was waiting for someone, she is not waiting anymore. "Are you?" She surprises me with her question, her accent no longer as French as when she said her name. Maybe her mother is French, my brain cannot stop thinking, cannot stop analyzing, her mother would give her the name and the lilt in saying her name.

"No." I reply, watching her smile. With her left hand, she moves her hair from her eyes. Like her, but not like her. Like me. Left hand, like me.

"Would you like to walk me home?" She asks, and I almost choke on the last of my drink. I set my empty glass on the bar. I nod. I do want her. I can have her and I want her, so I stand and motion for the check. I pay both hers and mine.

"I would." I say, and I touch her left hand with my left hand. "I would like to walk you home."

We make it to the steps leading up to her place. She turns a few steps above me, she is as tall as me. Looking into my eyes, her fingers start to work at the buttons on my shirt. She is kissing me, her teeth running against my bottom lip, her palms on my chest.

I want her. I move my hands down her back, kissing her until I feel the air come out of her lungs, holding her and kissing her, and walking her backward up the steps to her door.

We barely miss a step and I do not let her go and we manage the keys and the locks and she is either kissing me or I am kissing her as we let ourselves in and slowly ping-pong against the walls as she pushes my shirt off my shoulders and I manage to undo her buttons and her bra.

She is wearing a slender silver cross in the cleft of her breasts. Like her, but not like her. I catch the chain in my teeth and the cross between my fingers. I wonder where her faith is, I wonder how does someone have faith at all.

She pushes me backward onto the bed and fumbles with my belt and I push her skirt down over her gently rounded hips. I want her, and I take her, like her, not like her.

#end#