In the cafe, she laughs and runs her hand through her thatched hair and suddenly I'm thinking of sunlight and patios and quiet mornings.
Vienna has been good to us, two tourists holding hands in airplane gates and other terrifying places. Vienna has smiled upon us. In particular, the men have smiled at us. Well, they smile at her, all devious eyebrows thinking devious thoughts.
One walks by and gives her the pick-up nod she'll later emphatically deny knowledge of.
Hey gorgeous, want a better cup of coffee?
She disentangles her left hand from her hair and points to the ring.
I can help you get that off! he shouts cheerily.
A persistent one, I say, and trace circles in the condensation on my glass.
Her foot traverses my leg.
I'd call it cheeky, she says, surveying my face for a reaction.
Let's go, she says quiet and impetuous, and I realize I am inextricably tangled in that hair, those eyes, flitting over my features like brave dragonflies.
I also realize there is nothing to be done about it.
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