Rosie Wilde
The Modern Gentleman's Sweetheart​​
The city, for once, is quiet. Snow as soft as the feathers of a swan blankets the streets, muffling the customary cacophony and purifying the frigid air. It is perfect weather for tea.

You enter your customary shop, for a moment overwhelmed by the warmth and fragrance of the place. Sharp ceylons swim with earthy pu-erh and dance with delicate silver needle. A bouquet of fruits and flowers of oolong makes you nostalgic for the distant summer. 

The shop is nearly empty--there are but two customers, and a solitary cashier who reads a newspaper at the counter. The first of the customers is a man, older than you, shuffling restlessly about the aisles. The other is a young woman who immediately catches your eye. Her pale face a picture of concentration, she considers the selections on the shelves before her. Earl Grey flavored with lavender or vanilla blossoms? You study her in turn, taking in the sight of her elegantly-dressed figure: lissome as a doe with the curves of a woman. Her hair, as black as a crow's plumage, peeks out just below the brim of her hat. She is, to quote the cliche, just your type.

You browse distractedly, your mind and eyes always landing back upon the woman. Perilous thoughts invade your mind: how you wish your teeth were decorating her slender white neck instead of the pearls which hung there. How you yearn to replace with your hands the ribbon on her narrow waist and hold her there, in the center of the shop, and press your lips to her red mouth. To run your fingertips up the seams of her sheer stockings, out from under which dark swirling tentacles adorn her graceful legs. To bury your face in her ample bosom, the pale pillowesqe flesh giving itself tenderly to your touch. And, growing bolder, to trace your desires on her downy, agonizingly soft inner thighs, provoking goosebumps and inciting a delicate shiver of delight.

You are snapped out of your reverie by the decisive click of her heeled shoes making their way towards the door. In one dizzying moment, she brushes her hand deliberately past yours, and, as surely as the snow will melt come March, she is gone, leaving a trail of rose perfume in her wake.