A Lobster Dinner on the Ocean

She's beautiful. Long, dark, straight brown hair. It's been a while since you dated a girl without curly hair. Light skin, soft to the touch it seems. I wonder if I'll have a chance to find out tonight. I've heard if you reach for the same something, it's a good way to have 'accidental' physical contact. Those eyes, so rare for a woman of her, pigmentation. A beautiful shade of blue that you just want to get lost in.

They do not stare intently at the menu she is holding, but her eyes rather glance up and down, left and right, not really aware of your presence, or not caring whether you are admiring her 'secretly' or not. But she seems as if she already knows what she's ordering, and you do as well. You had bribed her. You had 'casually' mentioned that the best lobster within a hundred miles was to be found here, at a restaurant coincidentally located on the ocean, overlooking the inlet. And it's also incidental that the sun is about to set, in about forty-five minutes, when dinner is likely to be ready, right over 'there.' I'm sure she knows your intentions. It's common knowledge to her gender what all guys are like by the time she's a freshman in high school. And we're years from that. I don't doubt many men have tried and succeeded in seducing her. But let's see those eyes again, and find out what they're up to, if they can tell you anything.

It's as if she has a custom of looking through menus a specific amount of time regardless of her preferences, either culinary or social, decided or not. I wonder if she interrupted her routine even when I stopped looking at her and glanced briefly over the water to the place where the sun will soon set. Is it a 'show' for me? Of course it is, all her movements are precise, planned. You cannot see her legs but they are crossed, her body shifted just enough from being perpendicular to the floor that you can tell. Of course you want to turn it about ninety degrees, and in a more private location. Her dress is surprisingly casual. You've seen her dress better in class. But it fits her figure, wide shoulders, impressive hips, long legs and all. You wish it was a few minutes ago when you walked behind her to the table. You imagine her standing there on a rotating platform, turning and turning. Every six seconds.

But you can only admire her face, her hair now. The latter is put up in a way you cannot tell how long her hair is, but you know, because it was the first thing you noticed about her a couple of weeks ago. Her face is calm, not smiling nor frowning. She is not fidgeting, as many women you've dated usually are, tapping or shaking a foot, a pen, a piece of paper, etc. You see in her face a peace, whether it reflects the state of her being within, or whether it's an expression she inherited from her significant others, there is a tranquility, a quietness, there that begs the ridiculous question, 'Are you enlightened?' You're silly. But, really, it is remarkable how much control she has over her facial expressions, as if it was part of a script she had memorized and practiced an infinite amount of times. You cannot imagine her slouching, or what she might look like slouching, and you think whether or not she's doing it now. You try to emulate her posture, but find it's difficult not to slouch or bow while appearing to read the menu. You find your eyes drawn to her shoulders, bared. It must be the dress.

Except for her eyes that seem to dance, she is perfectly still. The fan above is doing little to disturb her hair, and my comparatively apparent restlessness seems to escape her notice or elicit a response from her. Can she tell I'm nervous? I reach for my glass, but I've already drank all my water. I sip at nothing, and the ice cubes rudely strike against the inside of the glass, disturbing the silence. She looks up, only moving her eyes, briefly at me, then at my glass. Just as quickly, she turns to her right, her dress both tightening and slackening around her breasts and waist. You think for a moment you are ready for dessert, and then wonder how a woman can move so, without seeming to move at all, graceful she is. She does not leave her seat, nor is she looking at the direction she is facing. As you try to find where her eyes are focused, a waitress starts down the aisle with a pitcher. She returns briefly to her original position, then closes the menu, and places it to her left. You put away your own as the waitress takes your glass and fills it. You nearly drop the glass as you take it from the waitress. You take a sip immediately and feel like an idiot. She faces slightly away from you now, her eyes glance briefly at your own, examines a ship in the inlet a moment, and then a couple at a table on your left. But they never wander so far that they cannot focus on your own in an instant. She is about the repeat the process when you hear someone speaking. You sigh at the interruption.

'Do you like it?'

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