bare legs

The unbearable view of the legs under the table

At a coffee this morning, lightly dressed, bare legs.

I sat down at a small table, a little to one side.
I was waiting for my macchiatone reading the messages on my cell phone, when I see a few tables farther on two men seated, in their forties, conversing with each other, as only they can do.
A woman sitting alone does not go unnoticed, and in fact I perceive the gaze of the one in front, who lingers, then detaches, talks to the other, then returns to me as soon as possible. So they do.
I see his gaze flee quickly under my table several times, looking at my legs.
I am slightly annoyed, but then I think about it and tell myself that it is so, we might as well take advantage of it to play a bit.
I cross the left leg, shortly after the right, turning them slightly. All of a sudden I bend over and, without taking my eyes off the phone, I adjust the ankle strap with my hand. Her gaze is trapped.
He just waits for me to spread my legs for some absurd reason, he wants to see inside. I know and I let him wait. Minutes pass, my cup arrives. They get up and, just as they do it and only at that moment, when in half movement they can no longer go back and sit down, cross their legs again, very slowly, leaving for a couple of seconds a fantastic vision to those who have waited but who can no longer enjoy it now.
Now you can go peacefully to the office.
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