.. but not opera, very much. Come about five o'clock."I looked at her; she grinned, gave me another peck on the cheek, and left to cross the room to a...bookish young man at another table, whose face, when she sat opposite him, lit up like a searchlight. She reached across the table and took his hand, and his expression somehow managed to become even brighter. Their hands parted, he gathered his things, and they left; hand in hand. My eyes prickled and I resisted the urge to mop my eyes dry,. I can tell when guys do this. They do it very consciously. Usually it doesn't work. It's working this time. I love his eyes. They are a deep color and have long dark lashes. He's also rubbing his fingers over the back of my hand as he talks. They are large, warm and a little rough. I know the backs of my hands feel like silk to him. I know he's thinking about the rest of my skin. I can tell his eyes are skimming across the skin on my neck, my shoulders, below my ear, over my breasts. He's. More

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