Part One

Chapter One

It was the movement that first caught my eye.

That automatic sequence of movements done by muscle memory, repeatedly and without thinking, dexterous and complete - the red nail fingertips of her right hand, several silver rings on her fingers, flipping open the top of the box. One finger aligned the flipped up lid so the angle was right, then two fingers grasped the filter and pulled a cigarette out.

They could have been touching her clitoris, the movements so precise, the purpose so similarly exquisite.

I was three tables away with a direct line of sight.

My eyes followed her finger tips, focusing only on their movement, as she withdrew the cigarette from its silver-lined box. Red-lined would have been better, edges velvet smooth and seductive, smooth and warm with blood. Her left hand, her eyes elsewhere because she knew exactly where everything was - every item perfectly placed like a heroin fix - took the lighter, turned it around so her thumb was on the wheel. Her red tipped thumb ready to turn the flint.

To rub over the split on the head of my cock would be better, to press between my lips would be best.

Still in automatic, the hand with the cigarette - between her fingers now with her thumb resting on the filter - paused in mid air as if to check the geometry, the trajectory, before moving it upwards to her lips.

My eyes followed the cigarette, captured, entranced; I couldn't look away. Wouldn't want to, and I didn't even smoke.

Her lips were the same scarlet red as her manicured nails. I glanced down to her cup and yes, there was a lipstick kiss perfectly imprinted on the rim. On my prick would be better, on my lips would be best. She was entering that state of complete self-absorption, that suspended moment where nothing else mattered but the first inhalation of smoke. Nothing else mattered.

I was the same. I felt the weight deep in my gut that came before a heartbeat and the answering twitch of my penis. I was as addicted to this as she was.

She placed the cigarette between her lips and her eyes were blank, unfocused, seeing nothing. Her hand with the lighter came up. One preparatory click tested the flame. The sound of it pulled her from her trance and for the first time she focused on what she was doing. Fire burns, she was burning hot. She flicked the lighter once more and cupped the flame, protecting the cigarette's tip from any flickering breeze with her fingers curved around.

The cigarette lit and she took in the first long breath of smoke, pulling it down deep to the bottom of her lungs. Her eyes closed with the exquisite nicotine rush and her breasts rose. Time stopped and my heart beat and I was fully aware of my cock. She let the first inhalation go in a long stream of smoke directed up to the sky, and for the first time looked around, her petit mort over, the sounds of the cafe's courtyard seeping back. I heard voices from other tables, at least, so I thought she must have, too.

She glanced over and saw me watching. She took another drag. Her disdain was perfect. She didn't need anything or anyone in that moment, she certainly didn't need me. She had her cigarette. She didn't smile, still self absorbed. Just like me in my selfish pleasure, gazing at her. Self-absorbed. She could have been in my world, but I wasn't in hers.

As she smoked her cigarette I could see that her consciousness was slowly returning and she was becoming aware of the people and movement around her. She picked up her phone in her left hand, but that too was semi-automatic. She was still centred on the cigarette, centred on herself, not paying much attention to the phone, her finger idly skating on the screen. I took the opportunity to study her some more. The cigarette might have satisfied her, it no longer satisfied me.

Her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, revealing an elegant neck and lustrous pearls on the lobes of her ears. She pushed errant strands of hair behind an ear, tucking it back, which drew attention to high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. She exhaled the smoke high into the air, and the tilt of her neck raised her breasts higher.

The movement stretched a small gap between the buttons of her blouse, and the angle was such that my eye caught a border of lace on her bra. It was white, which surprised me. I thought it might be red, or another vibrant colour, to contrast with her skin. But then, she wasn't dressing for me, although I'd willingly undress for her.

Looking around the café's outdoor piazza, she finally, properly, registered that I was watching. Holding my gaze with her own, she took another long drag, then stubbed the cigarette out. A tiny smile showed in the creases at the corners of her eyes, and she winked.

The gesture was so spontaneous, so genuine, so generous, that I couldn't help myself. Caught so blatantly looking, I smiled in return.

She mouthed, "Naughty boy," and I grinned, nodding at her accusation.

She smiled too, then efficiently packed her belongings into her bag. She stood up and quite deliberately smoothed down her skirt, sharing the shape of her backside, giving me the pleasure. She walked past my table, didn't say a word, but ever so briefly touched my shoulder. She didn't look back.

She didn't need to. She knew I was watching.

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Chapter Two

I went back there the next day, and the next. She wasn't there.

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Chapter Three

On the third day she was already at the café, sitting at the same table under the same shading tree.

I sat down at my table (it was becoming my usual table), unfolded a newspaper and began to read. When the waitress came with my coffee, I acknowledged her.

"Thanks, Lizzie." I knew her. We exchanged a few words, and I watched her walk away.

Glancing over to the woman, I saw that my brief conversation with Lizzie had caught her attention. Her eyes followed the girl, then she turned her eyes to me. Quite deliberately, she tapped her red fingernail tips on the cigarette packet there on the table before her.

I nodded, very briefly, then placed my coffee cup on the table and turned its handle with a push of my finger, as if to set up a special alignment.

She repeated exactly the same movements from the other day, but this time her gaze stayed on me, not in some subconscious place, not without thinking. Then, after her first long drag and its long exhale and her rising breasts, she continued to smoke, dreamily looking up into the tree above her head, the fingers of her non-smoking hand just inside her collar, touching her neck. The movement of her fingers was slow, almost curious, as if she had found some softness on her own skin and wanted to explore it. My lips would be better, my hand holding her throat would be best.

Then, as a gift, but she never looked directly at me when she gave it, she undid the top button of her blouse, revealing the high curve of a deep cleavage. She shifted a little, and I became aware of a long leg, a slim calf and a shoe swinging.

I wondered what her smoky breath would taste like, and remembered another woman from a long time ago whose breath I didn't mind tasting, but I could no longer recall the exact taste. Mints in the mornings, perhaps, or extra time with a toothbrush before coming to my bed. The cool taste of mint, but really, I didn't mind the smoke, the catch in the back of my throat like a log fire in winter, burning hot.

I turned the handle of my cup, breaking the sacred alignment. Smoke would most likely overpower coffee when it came to a lingering taste. But I was getting ahead of myself. All she was doing was smoking a cigarette on her morning break.

My reverie was broken by the scrape of a chair, and my eyes focused. She walked towards me, belly and long thighs sheathed in a grey corporate skirt, and this time she stopped, her fingers light on my shoulder.

"Next time," she said, "we should share a table."

"Next time, yes, we should."

"Until next time, then?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Good. I'll look forward to it."

Her voice was sexy and rough. I wondered if she drank whiskey, would that smooth it?

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The Art of Longing