They lean, they shift their weight, they are lined up along the south wall.
Tall and strong, one wiry and wearing boots. Some stand solid sipping a cocktail, today’s paper folded under the arm. A few with button down shirts tucked into slacks, move a briefcase along the floor with every step toward the front of the line.
Every few slots is someone athletic, maybe in running shoes, maybe the dimple from the curve of muscle ending above the bend of elbow, the morning workouts that cannot be hidden by the sleeve.
Then the GQ types, randomly interspersed, wearing those leather shoes, the ones that speak of travels to Italy, maybe a pair of readers perched toward the end of his nose.
Toward the back of the line, tatts. And one with combed back silver hair. And one with a baseball cap and the line of jaw that says he means business.
There is no nervous shuffling.
The next man steps forward into position.
She sees nothing. She stands silently, centered, wearing her favorite heels. The blindfold is secure.
She lifts her chin slightly to the left and tips her head to her right, parts her lips slightly to take in his scent, tastes his person in the cologne and soap and air of anticipation that finds her face before the warmth of his skin.
And then the telltale deliciously trapped feeling- the drowning, desires-more kind of breathing- moves through her as his mouth presses to hers. This one, he is the one- for tonight.
Accept me as I am. I have. One woman cannot be every man’s everything.