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“No doubt,” Gwendolyn, Mrs. Merriweather’s granddaughter chimes in as she fans herself.
The girl’s as flushed as if she’s been in a sauna for an hour.
“There you go, lass, settled,” gesturing to her granddaughter’s confirmation. Mrs. Merriweather sits back with a triumphant look on her wrinkly wise face.
I smile to myself longingly.
It would, if fairy tales were true. If Prince Charming knew when to be Superman, then knew how to stop. But they’re not, this is the real world and dominating men are just…dominating! No heart, no compassion, no emotion.
“Did I hear him right, Summer?” Gwendolyn asks hopefully, lifting her head from her horn-dog daze. “Did he say he was coming back tomorrow?”
The girl’s practically panting.
Good Lord! I certainly hope I didn’t look like that. What if I reacted to him the same way, if he saw me panting for him like Gwendolyn’s doing? Did I pant? No, I couldn’t have, I have more control, don’t I?
SHIT.
“I’m not sure, Gwen,” I don’t want to seem interested in anything that man does. “He might have.”
I will not admit I remember every single word Mr. TD&I, said, how he said it, and all those decadent images they elicited I will never forget. Nope, I will never admit I remember. Every. Single. One.
“Oh, I hope so, I hope he comes back every day. I’ll be right here waiting for him.” She pauses. “Summer,” a soft smile tugs at Gwendolyn’s mouth, “if word gets around about that gorgeous man coming in here every day, think what it could do for your business? The women would be lined up, it’d be standing room only, like a Chippendale’s show. And if he brought friends, goodness, you’d be rich in no time.”
I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the scenario.
“Good Lord, Gwen, women are not that hard up to look at men,” I scoff.
But wasn’t I just quivering over the idea of seeing him tomorrow? Talking to him tomorrow? Hearing anymore wicked things he might have to say tomorrow? Really, aren’t I hoping he comes back tomorrow?
“Och, Summer, women enjoy…what is it they call it, Gwendolyn love?” Mrs. Merriweather turns to her granddaughter.
“Eye candy, Gran, we love eye candy.”
“Brilliant, love.” The older woman turns to me, (she’s definitely not old, nobody could be old as hot to trot as she is). “Women enjoy good eye candy just as much as men do. It don’t mean we be floozies, we merely appreciate it,” she finishes with a firm nod to her chin again.
Oh brother! I have to admit she’s got me. I’d be a hypocrite if I disagreed with her.
The women at the next table start nodding their heads in agreement, the book club that comes in once a week. All of them pristine images of perfectly pressed and precisely matching PTA members. The Wifezillas.
“I’d be here, we’d all be here, wouldn’t we ladies? He’s much more interesting than what’s on sale at Wal-Mart, right ladies?” the Gran Damme speaks for her group of intimately frustrated ice princesses, they’re frozen fortresses melting and leaving a puddle on my floor.
Her little minions all chirp their wholehearted agreement, faces flushed, eyes glazed with building fantasies of Mr. TD&I.
Hands off, witches, he’s mine!
Possession and jealousy rear their ugly green heads.
Get a grip Summer! He flirted with you, that’s it. He probably comes on to every woman who crosses his path. A manwhore, that’s what he is, talking his wild fantasies. He probably goes through women like t-shirts, then casts them aside in the laundry heap. NEXT. Not for me, no thank you.
Nope.
I’m not interested in his fantasy.
No naked body painting.
With him.
And his gorgeous body.
He didn’t tell me his name.
I wonder if he is coming back tomorrow.
