She oozes conflict. She’s hot, almost in spite of herself. No makeup evident. Shiny, long, dark hair. Her face is pale. Her skirt is… a little confining. Short. But also, somehow, a little too high on the waist, wrapping around her belly, unflatteringly. A shame, because there’s nothing wrong with her belly. The skirt is the problem.
The word “unflattering” is almost euphemistic here: what I mean, is, “misleadingly insulting.”
Meanwhile, her top…. She wears a flouncy, black tank with a deep “V,” well into her not understated cleavage.
Her body language, her phone usage, all scream “Keep away.” Not just to me. In general.
But here she is. It’s a Tuesday night. She’s alone, in the bar, at 11 p.m. She doesn’t seem to be waiting for anyone. She’s nursing, slowly, her sauvignon blanc. What’s she doing?
- She’s a lawyer. A mid-level associate at a big firm. She just finished work. She’s hungry. Her big apartment in a tall building is under-furnished. Empty. Uninviting. Lonely.
- She pays close attention to those around her. She’s on the prowl. Not for me. Not for anyone in this bar. I’m not sure for whom. She’s not finding, or hasn’t yet found, him (or her, or them) tonight.
- I’ve got it all wrong. One way. Or another.