She watches him from across the bar.
She stores every move, every glance, deep inside her mind.
Slender little files marked “Him”.
She saves them for a rainy day then pulls them out one by one when she needs them most.
But mostly she pulls them out just for fun.
Tiny moments of memory strong enough to bring forth that distinctive stench of stale beer and sweat mixed with his scent, along with the feel of the bass and drums pulsing throughout her body as a band plays a blazing set to a way too empty room.
She could detect his scent anywhere.
It had taken up residence deep inside her mind and she wasn’t sure if it was delicious torture or a twisted gift from the gods.
Sometimes they felt the same.
In some ways, the smoking in bars ban wasn’t such a bad thing.
With just the briefest of eye contact they’d find themselves outside chain-smoking but rarely were they alone for longer than a sentence or two before somebody would join them.
Yet somehow, it was enough.
Strangely, while the intensity of attraction on every level hummed underneath everything, it was all still cream.
She had the patience of a cat waiting for the right moment to pounce, perfectly secure in the knowledge that moment was coming.
A kitten lapping up a frothy bowl of cream.
But until that moment came along, the covert brush of a calloused hand along her thigh, the heated glances when nobody’s watching, those stolen moments were somehow enough.
A sort of sanity.
The details would sort themselves out when it was time.
Unfortunately, time ran on it’s own schedule.