I watch her.
She’s oblivious to other people sitting around her; not paying any attention to the conversations going on around her. Her world is limited to her mobile phone.
Every now and then she looks up and around but her eyes see nothing. Then she taps away on her phone again, a slight smile decorating her face. Minutes later she glances up again, this time seeing.
No one pays her any attention.
She doesn’t see me.
The lady turns in her seat and holds her phone in a seemingly awkward angle. Awkward for the casual onlooker. Not for me. She’s talking a picture. Of her legs. I know because I have done it countless times too.
Another glance around her. This time she catches my eye. I smile at her. She blushes and squirms a bit in her seat. Ignores her phone. I pretend to shift my attention but continue to watch her from the corner of my eye.
The slight smile is back when she taps away on the device again. Who is she sharing her image with? A man? A woman? An entire timeline?
My mind wanders… as does my hand that travels up my thigh and gently touches my crotch. Fingers softly stroke my labia, a thin layer of fabric keeping me from my wetness.
I bring those same fingers to my nose, smelling myself.
She watches me.
We watch each other.
I know that she knows.
She knows that I know.
We watch each other and we both know.
She slips off her stool, clutching her phone in her hand. At the door of the restroom she turns around… an invitation. A sign.
© Rebel’s Notes