I arrived home from work at around nine thirty from an incredibly busy day at the office. We missed an important internal deadline, and the senior partners were so pissed off they had f***ed the junior partner team responsible scrambling to make up time for the loss time. Luckily my particular team was ahead of the game with our cases, and I was graciously asked to steer our team over and offer assistance to the culprit team. Being our team’s leader, I accepted without any complaints, as I saw this as an opportune chance for positive team building. Prior to this new assignment, my day was f... Continue»
I have often pondered the difference between an opportune chance and the philosophical debate which surrounds destiny. How do certain things or events in our lives counterbalance and tie into one another? I’m sure you know what I mean, for instance, “If this hadn't happened, then I would never have been at that place at this time for that to happen.” In my opinion, it is all a game of chance, as opposed to a pre-determined destiny or script.
My initial encounter with Sophie may have seemed a bit blurred, and it was certainly a chance meeting on my part, but knowing her as I do now, I think our first interaction was probably more of a pre-determined script on her part.
My daily morning ritual is to leave my lower Manhattan condo promptly at seven and walk a few blocks to the local coffee shop I frequent. A few years ago, when I moved into the neighborhood, I made it a point to get to know the shop owners Borya and Alina who I later discovered immigrated to the United States in the early 90’s from Russia. Over the years we’ve forged a great friendship, and have had numerous chats about life, travel and the politics of the world in general. The good thing about fraternizing with the owners is that, the moment they see me walk in, Borya or Alina will bark out my order to the college aged barista, and then greet me with both a smile and a hug, like f****y. I always enjoyed that part of my morning, but the best part was getting my hands on their skim milk latte to start the day.
After grabbing my latte, I usually quickly scurry to find a seat and read the online version of the Wall Street Journal. At eight twenty I walk to work, so that I can be at my desk by eight fifty. This is my routine, my timepiece and like all routines, they govern life, or rather they regulate it.
The coffee shop occupies the ground floor of an old New York City 1930’s art deco building; it is decorated with odd chairs and swaybacked sofas on uneven wooden floors with far-eastern looking rugs and cushions along with many interestingly odd corners. One sees a multitude of faces during the day, grad students in walking boots, working-men in work boots, women in sandals and the odd suit.
That's me, the odd suit.
I always try to sit towards the left hand back corner of the cafe. It is my “choice” spot which is somewhat tucked away from the hustle of the main floor, yet it puts my back to the wall and gives me an excellent view of the entrance and main room where the barista’s hone their prep and people skills. I sometimes sit in another seat which is about ten feet from my preferred perch, but today, my spot was vacant. Word!
I noticed her immediately of course, but nothing about her particularly struck me at first glance though. Don’t get me wrong, she was an attractive woman maybe a bit younger than my forty one years, but not by much. She was sitting with the New York Times held almost plastered to her face, which she briefly lowered to appraise me as I walked by. We nodded at one another, and then she raised the paper back up and got on with her reading. I managed to grab my seat, and then hit my Wall Street Journal app immediately. I then took a sip of my latte and settled into my morning groove.
After about five or ten minutes, I heard the rustle of newspaper over by where she was, and so I looked up and caught a glimpse of her as she crossed her legs. The paper was still concealing most of her upper half, but I saw how short her skirt was and how beautifully tanned her legs where. They were also very nicely toned and shaped, and they had me gazing longer than I usually do for a pair of sexy legs. I was entranced as I stared at them; she wriggled in her chair which made her skirt ride further up her thighs. The skirt was devilishly short, possibly too short for some, but perfect for me the spectator, and as a reward for my patience, I could now see the very top of her inner thighs. Bonus! I felt a shiver of excitement course through my veins. As I looked on, hoping she would move some more, I noticed that she ultimately did, and as she lowered the paper to turn the page, she looked directly at me.
I suddenly caught myself hastily looking back at my laptop screen to make it seem as if I was more into the journal versus checking her out. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her raise the paper, and after a few seconds, she crossed her legs again, and I caught myself being hypnotized once more by her sexy pair of legs. This time however, I was quite certain I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a small teardrop shaped patch of dark pubic hair.
I could feel my heart race, and pornographic visions came rushing forth in my mind. You know the scene, sexy vixen opening her legs displaying her flower to entice her male counterpart to participate in the ritual act of fucking. Now I’ve seen pubic hair before, but it’s generally within the context of discrete intimate settings. Seeing it out there in all its glory, and so voyeuristically manifested a huge erotic overtone within my being that I had to cross my own legs in an attempt to quell the beginning stages of a swelled and excited penis. I slowly gazed below and noticed the gradual rise of height within the croch my slacks. This was due to the fresh flowing bl**d that now pumped feverishly within my independently-minded extension.
We stayed like this for what seemed several minutes, but truly, it was probably several seconds, before she decidedly folded her paper and placed it on the table next to her. I studiously avoided her eyes now, and could also feel the heat of my blushing face. She then stood, gathered her things, abandoned her paper and walked away from her seat towards my direction.
“Holy shit; did she see me checking her out?” I asked myself.
She then stopped in front of me and waited for me to look up before saying quietly, "Were you looking at me?” She did see me! My throat was literally too dry to actually speak as I tried to swallow nervously. I did manage however to look up and mutely nod my head mimicking a scared little boy in a principal’s waiting room after a school yard fight.
"What did you see?" She whispered, even quieter. I swallowed, then blushed more and said, "Your legs."
"Well… the top of your legs." I mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
"And what did you see at the top of my legs?" She whispered.
I couldn't answer. I swallowed and attempted to come up with something witty, but my mind was a blank sheet of paper. I think I must have looked like an out-of-water catfish gulping for air struggling to find H20.
"Did it excite you?" She whispered, even more quietly. I was able to coerce another nod while slowly raising my eyes to look into hers.
She looked back, and with a slight grin on her lips. She asked, "What's your name?"
"John" I said.
"And what do people call you? Jack? Jay? What?"
"John… That's what they call me. It's what I like to be called."
"Are you married John?"
"Not right now"
"Are you gay John? She whispered.
"No. I just don't have a girlfriend right now."
"Give me your phone number, John."
I looked at her, startled. She nodded, and I vocalized my mobile number.
"Don't be silly John, write it down." I took out one of my cards and wrote my mobile number on the back. She turned the card over. "John Envias, Esquire" She spoke softly. "A lawyer; who would have thought?" I always get that kind of reaction, probably because I don’t look like a lawyer, but once you get to know me, I do act like one. I wasn't offended though.