Lunch Date

As I hurry down the steps of 125 Broad St. I instinctively reach for my cell phone from the recesses of my purse to check the time. He hates when I'm late. I'm not! Just as I heave a sigh of relief, my phone starts vibrating--I turned off the ringer at work, seems the most courteous approach--it's him.

My eyes scan the street ahead to see his signature strut in a navy suit with white pinstripes; reminds me of a page break in Word. His tattered brown, leather shoulder bag hangs awkwardly at his side, try as it does, it can't match his stride. He balances his weight like an athelete bouncing from side to side--it doesn't sound it--but it's the picture of masculine grace. Even in a full suit, you can see his shapely physique. The wide shoulders narrowing at the waist where the white shirt pinches into his black belt with an over-sized silver buckle. Perched on the bridge of his thick nose, his sunglasses below his geled spiky hair, give his face the sleek contour of an aerodynamic insect. His lips are pursed in a look reminiscent of Ben Stiller's in Zoolander: Magnum. As I drink in this picture, I realize I haven't been breathing since the moment I spied him. I exhale.

I check an impulse to run towards him, my curling hair flying in the breeze. I take measured steps toward him ensuring my heels aren't clicking too loudly on the concrete. He sees me and hangs up. His face lights up in a wide smile; his teeth are lightening in the dark sky of his face. I feel my face flush as my lips part reflexively mirroring his mannerism. My pulse quickens in time with my pace. We meet in the middle of the block...my pink polo and black, drawstring skirt in sharp contrast to his business attire. We kiss--softly, slowly, sensually.

Living with D'Souza doesn't keep me from sneaking out to lunch with him on leisurely summer Fridays.