Max sat down across from me. Before sitting, he gestured toward the chair opposite (faux blue leather) with his cup of cafe mocha. "Taken?" He raised a pair of sexy/bushy eyebrows and my heart beat a little faster when I saw the pale green of the eyes beneath them.
I smiled and shook my head.
Max opened a magazine (here, the memory fails to supply details; my guess would be something like the New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly, in actuality it was more likely Vanity Fair or W, but I digress; wouldn't you?) and flipped through a few pages, not really reading. There was a restless air about him.
He was dressed all wrong. The damp September day that felt more like November. Yet Max wore a T-shirt, plain white, with a pair of worn and frayed cargo shorts, and flip flops. His legs were strong and tan, calf muscles defined, and dusted with curly black hair. He was striking, but not gorgeous. His nose was too big and his lips too full for beauty in the conventional sense.
He nudged me with his toe. "Where's your laptop? Why aren't you reading Details? Or something by David Sedaris, maybe?"
I grinned. "Think you've got my number?"
"I don't want your number. Then you'd want mine. Only fair. But that would lead to all sorts of complications."
Good shortcut, Max. Tell me right off the bat you're involved. Looking back, I wonder now if he'd perfected his seduction technique from experience, or imagination. Looking back, it raises Exhibit A, for the defense.
"Not looking for complications." I returned to peering out the window. In spite of the way his looks arrested me, I was not too titillated by the idea of flirting (or more) with a man someone else was calling boyfriend, partner, or even husband.
"What are you looking for, then?"
I raised my cup. "Coffee."
Max was quiet for a moment, pretending to concentrate on removing a piece of lint from his cargo shorts. He looked up. "I'm looking for the zipless fuck."