Rosie Wilde
The Modern Gentleman's Sweetheart​​
They are sitting not too close, but close enough. Close enough to feel the other's presence with all senses available, save that final frontier of touch. Some intoxicating philter bridges the gap between them. Clove, amber, the distinctive bite of bergamot--all mixing with the heady scent of fresh and fertile earth spread beneath their feet.

Time passes. The warming air, suffused by a light thick and sweet as honey, coaxes her out of the coat she had buttoned up before setting out. Her shoulders are bared to the world for the first time since September. One glove is slipped off, then another, and the sensation of a naked wrist touching on some nostalgic thrill brings about a sudden smile.

She has, truth be told, long since given up trying to focus on the static ink on the page pressed to her thigh, and instead her thoughts are turned to her solemn, smartly-dressed seatmate. Each quiet, measured breath from him a reassurance--he is still there, and they could share each-other for the afternoon, so long as they shared the bench there in that deserted park.

He reads his book, the topic something decidedly too dry for such a lush spring day. Some misplaced starling laughs giddily from the canopy of trees just beginning to put forth their prim pink petals. The ground is damp and full of possibility.

More than anything else, she longed to lay her head in his lap and speak of country matters.

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.