William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn’t been able to attribute to anyone: “A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem.” You will find Mr. Belle’s unbridled stream of consciousness here (https://www.williamquincybelle.com) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle).
The Café
By William Quincy Belle
The sound of nylon rubbing against nylon is both subtle and distinct. However, it can be electrifying when the sound is coming from a woman’s legs encased in nylon stockings.
Marcus hunched forward, playing with his BlackBerry. The company had made it standard issue for all employees, but he found he didn’t use it much. He had a computer at work and a computer at home. He said two places in his life were more than enough to remain in contact with the rest of the world, and if he wasn’t in either of those places, he was busy and didn’t want to be disturbed. But — and it was an odd exception — Marcus carried the device. He avoided looking at email on it and seldom used it as a phone, but he’d discovered one curiosity in it that had piqued his interest: a spelling game.
He was thinking of various letter combinations to make the longest word possible when he heard the unmistakable whisper of nylon. Without looking up or turning his head, he glanced to the side. Two black nylon legs uncrossed, paused, then recrossed, left leg over right. The sight was mesmerizing.
He looked back at the screen, and he examined the entire grid, considering the words he could form with the available letters. He slid his finger over the screen, hesitated, and scanned the grid one more time. Has he missed anything? He spelled the word positively and touched the Submit button. The screen showed a score of ninety-two, the highest he had ever seen. It cleared and waited for him to hit a button to proceed to the next level.
Marcus reached to the right on the small table and picked up his cup of coffee, a white china mug. As he sipped, his eyes focused on a pair of black high-heeled shoes. He paused, then sipped his coffee again, figuring the gesture would hide what he was doing: staring at the legs of the woman seated in the next chair.
He held the mug to his lips as he studied the shoes. They were well-kept black leather, not shiny like cheaper brands — stylish, with a sexy heel. The shoes evoked classiness, elegance. He swept his eyes over the room to get a better look at the woman. She was engrossed in her book, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what was going on in the coffee shop.
Marcus set down his mug and turned back to his BlackBerry, touching the screen to start the next level. He took a moment to study the grid, working out the various words he could construct, then typed the letters t-a-x-e-s. The score appeared on the screen as a slight movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He didn’t move his head, but flicked his gaze to his right. The woman reached out for her china mug on the same small table, which was all that separated the two of them.
Marcus leaned back in the armchair, putting his elbows on the armrests, and holding the BlackBerry below eye level. He peered at the screen, then turned his gaze to the woman. She was about his age, attractive, and well-dressed. There was an air about her, a touch of class. This was somebody who had an education, worked for a living, and possessed a self-confidence that came from being independent. Marcus studied her face. The woman concentrated on her book and seemed oblivious to all else.
She reached out for her mug again, and he looked back at his BlackBerry. In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman take a sip. She paused and looked around the room. She glanced at him. He touched his phone screen, although his word game had timed out and was asking him to hit a button to play again. He remained still. The woman put down her mug and turned back to her book. He shifted his eyes without turning his head. She was reading again.
He looked down at the woman’s shoes and studied the high heels. Would any man experience his reaction? He couldn’t say why high heels had such a sexual connotation, but they triggered desire in the back of his brain. Was it part of the culture? Was it because of advertising? Had a scientist ever formulated an explanation why high heels were so attractive? If you showed men two identical pictures of a woman but in one picture she had flats and in the other, she had high heels, would all choose the high heels because, well, just because? Heels added a certain je ne sais quoi.
He smiled, thinking of the traditional idea that men always thought about sex. This man was thinking about it, anyway. Marcus let his eyes wander up the woman’s nylon-encased legs. While her dress had a modest hemline at the knee, there was a side slit, which had opened because of how she sat. His eyes stopped on the exposed bit of thigh he saw from his vantage point, but his mind wandered even farther. He experienced those telltale biological signs that some imaginative neurons were firing up in an autonomic response to high heels and nylon-clad legs and telling specific body parts to release hormones into the bloodstream. Was he like a Pavlovian dog showing a response to a bell? Or in this case, could he make a homonymic joke by saying he was responding to a belle?
The woman coughed, and Marcus looked away. He picked up his coffee and finished it in one gulp. The woman stood up, again looked around, and walked toward the cash register. Marcus slipped his BlackBerry into his pocket and followed her.
The cashier was busy finishing up with another customer, and the woman took up position to wait her turn. Marcus came up and stood behind her. The cashier set down a small bag on the counter and announced, “That’s one regular coffee and a bran muffin. Anything else?” The customer hunted in his pockets for money.
Marcus looked at the back of the woman’s head, staring at her hair. It was a soft red. He wasn’t thinking of anything when he noticed an odor and questioned if it was perfume. Marcus leaned forward and sniffed the hair. There was a fragrance emanating from her, but he couldn’t tell if it was perfume or shampoo. It was subtle, but it was there. This observation seemed like another part of the sexual response. He smiled to himself. What women would think if they knew how well men responded to such stimuli?
He sensed a movement and looked up. It took a moment to decipher what he saw. Behind the cashier, up on the wall, a large mirror hung at an angle. It reflected the back of the cashier, the counter, and the customers waiting to pay. The woman looked into the mirror, staring at him. A flush crept up his neck. She must have witnessed him leaning in to smell her hair. She had caught him red-handed — or red-nosed. He looked back at the woman, and for a moment, their eyes locked. The woman looked at him. He looked at her. What was she thinking?
The customer at the counter had picked up his coffee and muffin and left. The cashier smiled at the woman. “Mrs. Baker, how are you today?”
The woman stepped up to the counter and smiled back at the cashier. “Good afternoon, Cory. I had a tea.”
Cory punched something into the register and addressed Marcus. “Will you be paying for both today, Mr. Baker?”
He took a step forward, holding a few bills in one hand. “Yes, I had a regular coffee and a date square.”
Cory punched a few more buttons and said, “That will be six twenty-three altogether.”
Marcus handed over the bills. As Cory fiddled in the change drawer, Marcus picked up the paper coffee cup serving as a tip jar and shook it. Corey dropped the coins into the cup. “Thank you, Mr. Baker.” Cory turned to the woman and nodded. “Have a good one, Mrs. Baker.”
Marcus nodded as he put the tip jar back in its place. He stepped back and let Mrs. Baker pass. He followed her to the door but took the lead, putting one hand on the handle and pushing it open so his wife could exit first.
They walked across the street to their car. He held the passenger door open, and once his wife was seated, walked around to the driver’s side. Marcus waited for a break in the traffic before opening the door. He looked down through the windshield and stared at his wife’s legs. Even after all these years together, he felt a passion for her and reacted to her sexually. Weren’t all husbands supposed to be turned on by their wives?
The last car passed. Marcus opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He reached into his pocket and fished out the car keys. If he remembered correctly, both kids were leaving for a friend’s cottage after school, and that meant the house would be empty tonight. This was the perfect opportunity for an intimate moment with his belle.
END
The Galway Review 