She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know how old he was or where he lived or if he was married or what he did for a living or whether it was his first Corona or his seventh.

He was alone, at least as far as she could tell. Then again, maybe his girlfriend had gone to the ladies room or outside for a cigarette. She'd already decided he probably had a very beautiful girlfriend who smoked and yet looked effortlessly gorgeous all of the time, like a glamorous villainess in a noir movie. He seemed like that kind of guy. The unassuming type who didn’t put in any effort but had that natural kind of charm, that kind of grace that attracted anyone who looked.

She was speculating. She didn’t know him. She looked down the bar again but he didn’t look up. He was reading a book and she could see the cover of it and it didn’t look particularly interesting but it must have been because he hadn’t taken his eyes off the pages even as the bar had become stiflingly crowded and lively.

Absentmindedly, she licked sugar off the edge of her glass and considered walking over to him. It wouldn’t be difficult, at least not in theory. She could almost see it happening, as though a more daring version of herself had already slipped free of her straight-laced body and was sauntering over to him.

Somehow, her fantasy version of herself was the best version of herself; the one perfect photograph in a thousand; she was suddenly careless and confident; easy and positive; the full-blown summer’s day version of herself turned up to maximum brightness; all golden rays and blue clouds and sunlit eyes.

She saw herself walking towards him and dropping onto the next stool, saw his eyes follow her hand up her bare, tanned arm to her face and hesitate there before eye contact spilled into verbal conversation and somehow it would be easy and breezy and he’d tell her about his book and he’d smile and she knew without seeing that he had a wonderful smile. The kind of smile so involuntary it’d be a compliment to receive. And the bar lights would hit her just right, making her glow, making her skin look smooth and perfect, her body more pronouncedly feminine, all long legs and perfect breasts and glossy hair and he’d look at her like she hadn’t been looked at in years; with that searching admiration, the almost confused look men would adopt when they were fitting her personality and her face together and wondering if the equation made any sense and it really didn’t because she always talked about the wrong things around new people; she’d overshare and spill out random ridiculous anecdotes but even if they fell flat, she knew he’d still laugh because he just seemed so incredibly nice and then maybe he’d lean closer and his hand would touch her leg, her knee, a few inches below where her dress ended and his fingers would stay there a while, moving surreptitiously higher until the whole thing felt so thrillingly dangerous that she’d start thinking about how his hand would feel between her legs.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Over-thinking. His hand against her face. She had a thing about men’s hands. They had a rough, almost animal quality; something that made her feel precious; elfin and beautiful in comparison. And he’d touch her face and kiss her, urgent and hungry, and she’d kiss him back, pouring everything she wanted into his mouth and then he’d grasp her hand and take her outside and kiss her again and take her to his place and hurry her through the untidy rooms, and they’d have been kissing the whole time; she’d have felt the soft cotton of his t-shirt in his fists, smelt the sweat and aftershave on him, felt his stubble against her smooth face, his teeth in her lip, his hands tangling in her hair and they’d be in his bedroom finally, kicking off shoes and dragging off each other’s clothes and it’d be beautiful and more. His body and his words and the taste of his sweat, and his weight on her and he’d get her, instinctively, intrinsically, and his cock would throb in her hand and she’d never wanted anything so much. She wanted to know what he’d do, the sounds he’d make, the things he’d say, the way he’d feel and how many times she’d come and how they’d laugh at themselves and how long they’d talk and the music they’d listen to and the coffee they’d drink and how he’d hold her hand and – and -

And then her boyfriend was at her elbow and she was back in the bar as he kissed her cheek and spilled out apologetic excuses for being a whole hour late and she tried not to breathe him in because she didn’t want to know where he’d really been. Reality had returned. She tore her eyes off the stranger and drained her forgotten drink, trying to find a smile.