Marie

The Italian woman, at my local milk bar, flirts with me. There's no doubt about it – those eyes, that mouth, the way she runs her tongue around her teeth, or her hand across her neck, or the way she adjusts her skirt. Something. She's got an older husband, maybe twenty years, and two younger boys.

She smiles at me, in that way that isn't just about the milk I'm buying. She caress' her breasts absentmindedly. Well, not really, but I've noticed, just lately, that her hand is always somewhere around her chest.

Today she caressed my hand, as she gave me the change. I kind of jerked it away, instinctively. Clearly, we're not supposed to touch now a days, is what I'm thinking. Then she kind of smiled. I laughed nervously. And we paused, momentarily. It was a very weird energy.

Sometimes, even as her husband is greeting me, she's making eyes at me. Raises her eyebrows, creases forehead, widens her eyes, that mouth thing. She runs the back of her hand under her chin.

I was happy to think that it was all in my own head, my imagination, god knows why, it was me. You know, maybe just a transference, at the times I'm, shall we say, toey. But now I am aware of it, I think it's her. I'm sure it's her. It kind of creeps me out, just a bit.

Happy days.