You glance at me out of the corner of your eyes while your left index finger probes your teeth, ferreting out the remains of the chicken and chorizo panini your bought earlier. At the same time you bought a double chocolate muffin and a tall latte for the young woman sitting opposite. You sit with your legs spread apart, arms like sides of ham resting on the dark grey leather armchair. You do not smile and when not glancing at me or staring at the skinny blonde girl sitting across the aisle you look straight ahead.
Your girlfriend is busy with the muffin. The thick, dark, moist sponge yielding to her fingers as she prises it apart. Methodically she is capturing every crumb on the end of her damp fingers, unfolding and finally licking and sucking at the concertinaed greaseproof wrapping. The whole universe reduced to a side plate of mass produced baked goods.
You have broad, seventies style sideburns and a cruel cast in your eye. Your hands reflexively clenched into fists, veins visible. A heavy silver coloured watch with a square face on your right wrist and a gold coloured signet ring on your left hand. You sit slumped, legs apart and buttocks towards the edge of the seat. Manspreading, feet flat on the floor, defiant. You might be the sweetest, most gentle guy in the room, but I don't think so. You should be carrying a shotgun and a badge along with your lip curl. You have a proprietal air. The air of man who knows his worth and won't take any crap. Especially from a woman.
The woman that you are with, the one with the muffin looks as if she has been inflated somehow, like a ballon animal or the airbags in a car after a crash. Fat envelops her, her face disappearing into pale, heavy flesh, as her jaws work mechanically, interrupted only by long slurps of the latte.
The skinny girl shifts in her seat and crosses her legs. She lifts her bag onto the table and busily moves through its contents. She withdraws a pale blue cardigan and puts it on even though a moment ago she was fanning herself in the stifling heat. She draws the cardigan close around her and grasps the top around her neck. She does not look at you as she begins tapping at her phone.Your girlfriend speaks and you shake your head, without looking at her. She pushes her plate away and then burps, covering her mouth with a dimpled, pudgy hand, gazing up at you from beneath her fringe.
You adjust the crotch of your three quarter length trousers, raising your buttocks easily. As you do so one hand slides into the waistband and starts to creep downwards. Then, with a sudden sideways glance, quickly remove it and glance at your watch. There is a slight flush on your cheeks as the skinny girl moves past, turning sideways in the cramped aisle. She is close enough for you to touch her if you wanted but instead you stare, tightlipped across the table.
Later you will discuss the hot blonde you met in a bar who was totally up for it and your mates will roar and pull faces as you recount how she gave you her number but she was too skinny for you. Nothing to hold on to, you know what I mean? Tipping the pint glass and draining it without touching your lips. Eyes sliding over the group of women standing at the bar