A woman with class
I noticed her the moment she walked in.
A navy-blue blazer draped over her shoulders, perfectly tailored to her frame. Beneath it, an ivory silk blouse caught the light just enough to suggest understated luxury. Her pencil skirt, dark and pristine, ended just above the knees, revealing the kind of poised confidence only a woman of status possesses.
She sat two tables away from me in the café, next to the window where the afternoon light framed her like a painting. Her hair, chestnut brown, smooth, and gathered in a low chignon, spoke of precision, of someone who cared about appearances but never in a way that seemed excessive. A quiet statement. A kind of power.
Then, there was her phone. A sleek silver device, thin and modern, resting elegantly in her manicured hands. She wasn’t scrolling mindlessly like so many others. No, her fingers moved with purpose, pausing at times to consider her response. She wasn’t chatting for amusement, this was something else. Something calculated.
Who is she messaging?
A woman like her would not entertain mediocrity. She was, undoubtedly, accustomed to intellect, to ambition. The man on the other side of that conversation (if it was a man) would have to be someone of equal standing. A man of refined tastes, of high intellect, of sharp wit. Someone who knew art, finance, philosophy. Someone who spoke in measured words. Perhaps in a towering office, seated behind an antique mahogany desk, closing deals worth millions with a mere nod. Or maybe he was a professor at a prestigious university, exchanging sharp, poetic arguments with her over literature and politics. He had to be someone extraordinary. There was no way she would tolerate anything less.
I watched, as she typed something swiftly, then placed the phone down gently, as though the conversation had already played out in her mind before she sent the message.
She finished her drink, rose from her seat, and adjusted her blazer with a practiced motion. Then, without another glance at her phone, she strode toward the exit, leaving behind nothing but a whisper of expensive perfume and a lingering sense of mystery.
As she passed me, I stood, casually making my way toward the door as well. Just as I approached, her phone, still in her hand, lit up with a new message.
For the briefest moment, I glanced down.
And then I saw it.
The name of her contact. "7inchdick"
A navy-blue blazer draped over her shoulders, perfectly tailored to her frame. Beneath it, an ivory silk blouse caught the light just enough to suggest understated luxury. Her pencil skirt, dark and pristine, ended just above the knees, revealing the kind of poised confidence only a woman of status possesses.
She sat two tables away from me in the café, next to the window where the afternoon light framed her like a painting. Her hair, chestnut brown, smooth, and gathered in a low chignon, spoke of precision, of someone who cared about appearances but never in a way that seemed excessive. A quiet statement. A kind of power.
Then, there was her phone. A sleek silver device, thin and modern, resting elegantly in her manicured hands. She wasn’t scrolling mindlessly like so many others. No, her fingers moved with purpose, pausing at times to consider her response. She wasn’t chatting for amusement, this was something else. Something calculated.
Who is she messaging?
A woman like her would not entertain mediocrity. She was, undoubtedly, accustomed to intellect, to ambition. The man on the other side of that conversation (if it was a man) would have to be someone of equal standing. A man of refined tastes, of high intellect, of sharp wit. Someone who knew art, finance, philosophy. Someone who spoke in measured words. Perhaps in a towering office, seated behind an antique mahogany desk, closing deals worth millions with a mere nod. Or maybe he was a professor at a prestigious university, exchanging sharp, poetic arguments with her over literature and politics. He had to be someone extraordinary. There was no way she would tolerate anything less.
I watched, as she typed something swiftly, then placed the phone down gently, as though the conversation had already played out in her mind before she sent the message.
She finished her drink, rose from her seat, and adjusted her blazer with a practiced motion. Then, without another glance at her phone, she strode toward the exit, leaving behind nothing but a whisper of expensive perfume and a lingering sense of mystery.
As she passed me, I stood, casually making my way toward the door as well. Just as I approached, her phone, still in her hand, lit up with a new message.
For the briefest moment, I glanced down.
And then I saw it.
The name of her contact. "7inchdick"
51-55, M
