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In my home office, I type up a few emails, respond to a dozen more, and when I can’t think of a single thing left to occupy me, to keep me from getting myself into trouble, I head back down to the restaurant to listen to the man on the piano.
It’s the back of her head I notice first. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as heads go, but this one signifies fresh blood. I’ve never seen her here before. She’s seated at the bar alone, head cocked, brow knitted, listening to the piano man play. This in and of itself is not unusual. Any number of women come here alone, looking for a date, looking for a man. Looking for something.
It’s the way she watches him that gets my attention. It’s her intense focus that holds it. Attraction is an invitation for greater knowledge, so I shift my stance, leave the booth I’ve been seated in and select one closer to hers. When the song ends and she lifts a glass of red from the bar, I feel a sudden need to see it touch her mouth. There’s time for that. Right now, it’s her fingers I’m captivated by. They’re long and slim. Capable. I bet she plays.
Just when I think she’s going to place the glass to her lips, and that I’m going to miss the pleasure of watching such an event, she pauses and glances around the restaurant. Is she waiting for someone? Or just searching like all the rest of them?
Her eyes scan the room. She looks toward the entrance. They say people often experience an extrasensory phenomenon that allows them to sense that they’re being watched. Scopaesthesia. She is gifted.
I have to know more, and so I stand and go to the maître d’. I request the table directly in front of the bar, blocking her view of the piano man. It’s striking how easy some things can be.
Now she doesn’t have to sense me watching her. She can know it.
I order a glass of red, whatever she is having, even though I’m not a fan of depressants. There’s enough of that
in the world as it is. When the song changes, she lifts her wineglass to her upper lip, sniffs it the way the perfect connoisseur might and then places it back on the table. Her skin is pale, smooth, creamy white. Skin that’s never had its day in the sun. Nothing could be more erotic.
I like what I see: confident shoulders, precise features, small nose, large eyes, capable chin, curves that hold the promise of peaks and valleys worth being explored. After all, the eyes control only twenty percent of the vote when it comes to senses.
She leans forward, and I appreciate the way her blonde hair cascades, spilling into her eyes, covering her face. I wonder how that pretty face reads when she’s unsure of herself, and I like the way she doesn’t immediately move to brush it away. It shows she’s confident; it shows she’s comfortable in her surroundings.
She really shouldn’t be.
It isn’t exactly love at first sight. But it isn’t a second longer, either. I’m not an indecisive person. When I see something I want, I know immediately.
Even perplexed, her face is young. Her hair is still partway in her eyes, and I realize she is listening rather than seeing. Nothing could be more seductive.
It takes eight notes before she finally straightens her back and tucks her hair behind her ear, and I realize why I can’t stop staring. The resemblance is uncanny. She looks so much like her that it hits me in the solar plexus. It’s in the movement—the slight of a hand, the tilt of her chin. It’s in the square of her shoulders.
I have to talk to her. There is no hesitation in the two steps it takes me to reach the bar. She looks up at me, unconcerned and unquestioning.
“May I join you?” I ask, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.
The expression in her eyes registers that she is unsurprised by my request, and why would she be? A beautiful woman like her, alone in a restaurant, alone at the bar, alone anywhere is certain to be familiar with unwanted and unwelcome attention.
She fingers the stem of her wine glass. I appreciate the opportunity to get a closer look at her hands. “I’m expecting someone.”
I hide the disappointment I feel. “That’s too bad.”
Her brows rise, but she doesn’t offer a response in return. She doesn’t have to say that she wants me to move along; she just expects that I will.
I extend my hand. “Elliot.”
She takes it in hers. She really shouldn’t be so accommodating. “Amanda.” She shakes more firmly than a woman should. Then she looks away. She’s watching the door. I think she’s realized she isn’t going to get rid of me so easily.
I drive the point home. “Try again.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Excuse me?”
“It’s just that you don’t look very much like an Amanda.”
She almost smiles. “What do I look like?”
The second most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I rub at my chin and take her in. It’s an easy deterrent. Gives me permission to get a better look. “I don’t know…a Genevieve or a…Calista…a Helena…maybe.”
“So, Greek then?”
I laugh. No. Definitely not Greek. “Maybe.”
