During my momentary break from written word, I noticed her standing in front of me across the way. Her side was turned to me revealing an intentional tear in her t-shirt giving way to the illegible writings tattooed on her right flank, as well as the edge of her breast. Not to say that she was scantily clad by any means, but her visible shape behind the single layer left little to the imagination.
We exchanged glances, eye to eye, on her way past towards the counter. She is neither exceptionally pretty, nor unsightly. You might think she was calling for attention, but I've seen the look of a seductress, and this was not of the same class. Despite a careful fixation on her facial region now, she glares at me with disdain in anticipation of the inevitability that I had perhaps peered at her brazier-less contour; like I was somehow supposed to be more mature than thousands of years of deep seeded primal desire. I am not, but who is to blame? To this bizarre bean who gave me no choice but to look: you know who you are.
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