She noticed he watched as she sipped.
She noticed he watched her face, her hands.
She noticed the gentle lingering looks along her legs and skirt and the slight hovering across her breasts, where she knew her her lacy bra just may peep, just a little.
Again, that dip, that slight lurch deep within her tummy , then deeper into the very essence of her womanliness and radiating downwards, quite literally, making her weak at the knees.
Still now, she looked back.
Noticing the gentle curve of his mouth,
Noticing the way he held his cup.
Noticing his tallness.
Noticing his confidence yet vulnerability; his silent permission for her just to look.
She noticed it all.

It took a forceful strength to not gaze too long at the place most hidden; the place she was already imagining, almost shamefully, guiltily.
How would he be?
How would he feel?
How much passion would he dare show?
How on earth could he ever know how much she had to give?

'You okay?' he asked, disturbing her reverie, making her stop and listen and focus...just on him...

'Look, you don't even know my name, I've been so rude,' he continued.
'It doesn't matter...really,' she replied, wondering in that fertile imagination of hers what his name would be...

'Martin,' he smiled. 'And you...you don't mind me asking?'
'No, oh no of course not...' she answered...happy and preparing for the usual scenario.
'Brigitte...French pronunciation...as in Bardot...'
'Oh'

She knew he'd actually got it...and that rather impressed her...her pretentious mother had so much to answer for!

He talked then.
He talked about the meeting that morning.
He talked about the dreaded journey home.
He talked about his daughter and smiled.
He talked about his love of Floyd and Dylan...
He stopped, just realising...she may not want to listen...

She still looked, watched every movement, listened to every word, every emotion. She not only listened. She absorbed him. Everything from him she absorbed.
She waited.
She waited for more.