She's looks like a real bitch. Sitting there, latte in hand, reading the Wall Street Journal for everyone to see. Dressed to the business nines. Plate of half-finished escargots in front of her, Nova lox brioche to the side. High-end fashionable handbag on the table for everyone to see. Oh, sure, glance my way. I'll smile back. Looked away just as fast as you could, didn't you? Like I'm some kind of social dirtbag. Keep reading you're damn paper. Like I even dared to look at you. I swear I can see behind those goddamn expensive sunglasses. Eyes filled with obnoxious self-importance. The whole world watches you. The world world moves for you. Because you happen to have won the hi-cheekbone, long-limbed body lottery. Big friggin' deal. Chicks like you are a dime a dozen. Nothing special. I'll keep smiling. No big deal. Costs me nothing. Bet you wish you could be rid of the peons sitting at the other cafe tables, so close to you they get to breathe your same air. How intrusive on your personal space. Don't glance at me again. Don't! You're not special. Oh, sure, get up and leave. Typical. Get up and pass by me like I'm just a piece of--
"Hello," she says. "I'm done with this, if you like to read it." She taps the newspaper.
I look down.
CALL ME is written. Followed by ten digits.
"I will." I sputter. "I will..."
"Hello," she says. "I'm done with this, if you like to read it." She taps the newspaper.
I look down.
CALL ME is written. Followed by ten digits.
"I will." I sputter. "I will..."
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