Sunday, 5 June 2011


Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
What to do!
To many, it's a lazy day, a day to fulfil nothing and yet feel content. A meal is the height of planning, and often not you don't even cook it.
For me however a Sunday is a good day to enjoy a coffee, grab a seat and see what God (or Darwin) offers. You never know, something might just fall in to your lap.

Such is today, and such is the reason why I felt the need to share. What's life if you can not tell people about those highlights.
Sitting in one of my favourite haunts I sipped a good tasting, if lukewarm, coffee while a paper nestled under my elbows. The usual clients flit in and out of shop, this air of high energy clouding the fact no one had anywhere to go.
To my pleasant surprise I noticed this young little thing scurry in from outside, arms containing a library of books, no doubt a fresh student face in the area.
She perched herself a distance away, books strewn across the table. To me she didn't look like the type of person who would be seen with such a collection of literature. She seemed, to me anyway, to be more at home in front of a camera, or at least modelling some disaster of a students idea of fashion. But then again I have misread a persons character.
(Remind me to tell you all about my business lunch in Dubai some time)
I kept a cool eye on her, making it not too obvious I am not paying close attention to her legs. I didn't really read much of my paper to be fair, not that it was particularly interesting.
Her figure had my attention.
Slight, smooth, sultry, stunning. She was A+ if I was giving out grades.
While ordering my next latte I notice her gaze is locked to mine, then away before I can get a good look. The game is afoot I feel...
She then ups the game. Twisting her hips to the side as she straddles her seat, keeping her eyes firmly locked on her books, she motions her legs in my direction.
Parting them ever so slightly she teases me with something Sunday's are not renowned for. The faintest whisper of panties is thrust in my direction, startling white under her cream skirt.
I might be the only man in the world who prefers the cotton panties, lace just gives too much away. And she wasn't letting me see more, a teaser, a taste, a teetering tremble for my gaze.
Having a peek I get a slight lock of her eyes before her legs close and return to their original position, making me wonder what I did to deserve such a treat.
Time moves by and soon enough she is collecting her things to leave. Clutching them close to her chest (Ample if you much know) she rounds the corner of my table to leave.
Now, acting is essentially pretending what you are doing is 'real', so this would be classed as the worst acting I have ever seen.
She stumbles, tripping her own foot and falls directly on to my lap. Not a book is spilled but the result was perfect, my arms fly out to catch her and allow themselves a good feel as she is pulled in to me.
Getting right back up she throws me a stunning smirk before quickly adding,
'Oh I am sorry'.
The door is closed quickly behind her, a few murmured laughs from other patrons but it is soon forgotten.
In my hand however is a crumpled piece of paper, pushed in to my hand as she 'fell'.
In it is housed her number with the simple message,

Sometimes Sundays can surprise you.

- Always carry a pad.

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