A tight white sweater, short skirt that showed off her long tanned shapely legs (my weakness.) I looked her over as she stood in line and she looked me over where I sat with a mischievous smile on her full lips. Then I looked at the way she moved her hips as she sauntered to a table close at hand. Her? Our? Story in poetical prose of rhythmic stanzas that will curl a girl’s toes. No rings she donned, “I’m a free woman” her song, As she crossed her long shapely legs, And looked at me impishly one table away, I safely went back to my book and read. I felt young eyes staring at me, With self proclaimed liberty, The phantom raising a glass of wine, To make a toast only it can find, So her eyes burned in me. Like an itch you can not scratch, At least not publicly, Not wishing to look but wanted to see, Her youthful beauty staring at me. The phantom was giggling with glee. I looked sheepishly from my book, To her sensual long fingered hands, Not a ring she wore left or right, And thought. I cleared my throat.“There were - or are - a few older women...”“A few? A few! More than one? Did they know about each other? No wonder that you weren’t...”It seemed that even if I really had not wanted to reveal anything more, she had been able or willing to make some assumptions - which in this case had even been the correct ones. I shrugged.“Yes - and yes. They did and they didn’t mind. But I don’t really want to talk about what I have been doing with others, it just doesn’t feel right to me.”That must have been the exactly right answer, since after that she didn’t quite open up, but she told me that she’d had an affair with an older married woman in her home town. Once their secret came out, she took the blame and disappeared to Aston. Like me, she was lucky to find a work in a place where the owners appreciated discretion much more than the orientation of the person. At some point Alva noticed that, besides being an excellent cook, she had become extremely good with reading.
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