Clip-Clop

I watch her march to the counter in her calfskin boots. The way they make a clip-clop on the slate tiles of the coffee shop. The way her blonde pony tail sweeps back and forth as she walks with her latte back to her seat. The way her tired eyes roll across the ceiling as she thinnks about whatever it is she's working on at her little netbook at her table in the corner.

And idle Wednesday in a quiet cafe, just like every other Wednesday before it. Ever since they dumped me from my desk, the weekends feel like weekdays and everything bleeds into everything else. I turn back to my screen, clicking up my resume, clicking through the listings, clicking on that last email from the headhunter who made all those promises.

Someone comes in, silver hair, nice suit. He has that executive sheen to his clean chin. The new guy has a plastered-on smile, like a decal on a robot. Of course he's meeting with the blonde in the boots. She stands up to shake his hand. She's nervous. Maybe this is an interview, or an evaluation. She's smiling too wide, eyes flashing. The executive's comfortable, tells a lame joke. She laughs politely.

I feel a thousand times better. If she were into that guy, if she really fell for that phoney robot-in-a-suit bullshit, she'd laugh for real. She'd tip forward, a laugh from the diaphragm. She'd look at his eyes and find an excuse to lay her hand on his wrist, just for a moment, just a touch. I write the scene. Directing the action, the woman forgets for a moment the meeting and tells a story of her childhood, the loneliness of the hill she grew up on. I'm in the suit now, and I run a few fingers through my silver hair, making a humble admission, perhaps a set of braces. No, it has to be something more serious. After an accident as a youth, I had to have my jaw reconstructed. I spent two years of highschool with my jaw wired shut. She relates, she moves in closer, my vulerability makes her bold.

His stilted, pained laugh draws me out of the scene. I'm back in the actual cafe, fiddling around, impotent, on my aging laptop. The executive and the blonde are talking. The executive has some sort of list in front of him. He's sipping and reviewing it while the blonde eplains. Maybe she's justifying, or back-pedaling, or apologizing. Things aren't going well, and that empty smile tatooed on the executive's face aren't making things easier.

She's wearing blue sweater and a stylish, black scarf. She looks very casual and professional at the same time. A friendly, welcoming style. She must have a job where people need to trust her. I'd trust her if I met her, if I had any kind of business to offer.

I'm back to my work. My half-finished novel, the blogging gig that pays beans, the screenplay my cousin is always almost ready to start shooting. I check my email again and again. I go through a few sites, looking at pictures of cats, then some other sites, looking at a few artistic nudes, then some other sites, looking at decidedly less artistic nudes.

How long have I been sitting here? I need to piss. I get the key from the counter. I head down the hall. I open the door.

The blonde is waiting in the men's room. I see her, and I stand there confused. It's not till I see her clothes on the floor that I realize she's standing there naked, staring at me. I should apologize and leave. I must have gone in the wrong door. She's looking at me, a little afraid. She's staring right at me.

Oh shit. This is for the other guy. She's trying to keep her job. I've stumbled into some kind of illicit liason. This is what women have to do in this economy. I should leave. I should let her do whatever she has to do. It's not my place to judge her. If I had to do something like this to get my old job back...

But she's looking right at me and I'm frozen. And she nods.

Before the door closes behind me, I'm pressing my lips to her face, feeling her frantic breath. Her hand is on the back of my head, she's forccing her tongue over mine, pushing. Her other hand is working fast, over my hips, down the front of my pants. She's much shorter than me, she's got those boots off. She's trying to climb up, leap up on top of me while we stand there.

We're up against the wall. Her skin is so soft, with lean muscles tensing underneath. She must run everyday. She must go to the gym. She throws a leg over mine, pulling herself up. She must get massages at the spa. She must use oils and salves to keep her skin so...

She gasps a bit, the tiles on the wall are cold. One arms lifts us up, off the wall. The other reaches down, fumbling through my pants. She's pushing forward against me, breathing, moaning in my ear. The heat from between her legs, the light blonde tuft, presses into my waist. I struggle with my underwear. I can't seem to get at my penis.

She's ready, she wants this. Hurry, she tells me. She moves to look me in the eyes, hungry. Come on, right now. I'm lost, somehow, inside my pants.

She's in a rush. She only has a minute or so before the executive gets suspicious. Her breasts are tiny with thick nipples I can feel poking through my shirt. She just needs to blow off some steam for the interview. Where the fuck is my dick.

She smiles, reaching down to help. It's so fun and dirty, this fling during work. So naughty, perverted, to fuck and almost get caught. Breaking rules, taking an extra smoke break, a two hour lunch.

I remember feeling like that, back when I had a desk. I only ever wanted to escape it. Her fingers finally find me. I feel a cold jolt through my body. In a moment, she'll be back to work, and I'll be back at my laptop.

By the time I'm out of my shorts, I've gone completely soft. Useless.