Ten Minutes to Kill

Ten Minutes to Kill

There’s a gorgeous young lady sitting on the Metro bench on the same side I am on.  I mean, wow!  She’s way thin for my taste, but she is flat-out gorgeous.  A little Indian influence (American Indian).  And I swear she did the leg-cross thing, schooched a foot or so closer, and did the leg-cross thing a second time.  Oh – she moved over so someone else could sit.  But still, she moved closer.  There was a time when I wouldn’t know what to do in this situation.  That day is long gone, boy.  I swear I could hand her this notepad, let her read this paragraph, and get that cell number without asking.  Well, it’s too late now; she just up and walked to the other end of the station.  The train is pulling in.

[Author’s note:  I thought about following her, but I didn’t.  That’s not my style.  Also, in the spirit of full disclosure, I would not have approached her if she continued to sit there and there was no train coming into the station.  If she approached me, though, I cannot swear that I would have been such a good boy.  I might have gone for the digits just to see if I could get them.]