I look up at this stranger through my painted lashes. My face made up with last night’s deception.
He’s with a girl – she’s oblivious – but I am not. His mouth is set, hard, and he holds my gaze while he walks past me. We both dare each other to look away first. He does.
I think maybe I imagined the story in his eyes – the red-hot story in which our mouths are the protagonists. The one where his hand cups my chin and his lips brush mine before our tongues caress. The one where my fingers pull at the hair at the base of his neck and my moans rest on his earlobe. The one where no words are uttered and all that is known about each other is what we see and feel.
I turn back to my book, where the story is written in unquestionable black and white. A few seconds pass. I look over to where he’s standing – he looked back! The story in his eyes is black and white too. And then he’s gone.