Late Tuesdays

I woke up a little late this morning -no time for a shower. I dashed water over my face and stared at my hair for a second. Do I really care what I look like? I'm not out to impress anyone, but I should care about my appearance -nah, frag'it. As the water dries I brush my teeth and gather my uniform for my day of drudgery.
Smelling good -kinda, got the fresh teeth taste. I'm ready to face the day, well as ready as I ever will be. I wrestle up my phone, my computer, my books and my lunch. Dump it all in my bag and cringe at the thought of slinging it over my shoulder. My bags been larger than normal (stupid story research material) and my shoulder's been complaining about lugging the extra weight around.
Out the door I go. Work on my ear-piece. J.D. picks-up, the requisite greeting spills out of like a robot. I smile to myself, enjoying the tiny little torture he's enduring. As soon as he gasps for a breath I interrupt:
"Hey, buddy. It's Jim, guess what I'm gonna say next."
"Don't worry about it, the boss already left for the day." He returned.
"All right, cool, I'll only be ten-fifteen minutes late."
Blazing down the freeway. ninety miles an hour in a minivan. Stopping abruptly in front of my port of call.
The day progresses as any other day -droll.
Finally it's Mocha Time! I jaunt over to my fave little coffee shop and M3 is sitting outside eating a hamburger with a friend (I presume). She's wearing those fur lined boots that everyone and their mother is wearing with a pair of knee high light gray almost drab blue stockings and a -gasp- black little skirt that came down maybe a quarter of the way down her thigh. While a gray v-neck sweater with what must have been a three-quarter's foot slash under her bosom with four safety pins holding it just a little bit open. I walked up onto the curb and said hello. My heart skipped a beat as I walked past her sitting outside with her legs crossed.
Boy do I love a good skirt.
Over the years I've noticed that I'm not that picky on who wears the skirt or what kind of body style she's sporting. What's more important is that she's got the confidence to put it on. Now that's sexy.
She follows me inside and looks me in the eyes.
“Large mocha?” I can feel the little smirk she's holding back. She knows she's got a huge chest and she knows most men can't help but look, but I stand ridged (pardon the pun) and hold eye contact.
“Yea.” It's all I could muster in the presence of such great mounds of physical flashback.
When she turns to the coffee machine I spy the snaking blue vein that seams to call out to me, crawling down the inside curve to her chest. Disappearing into her inner cleavage shadow. She sets up the machine and gets the milk and whip cream from the mini-refrigerator that sits on the ground just in front of me. She bends down, giving me a choice look, and second guesses herself. I swear she's doing it on my behalf. The milk and whip cream are now placed on the counter and we begin out routine chit-chat. “So your days almost over huh?” “Yeah, it's been fun.” “I bet. I just couldn't wait to get my java on.” etc., etc. She turns around while talking to pump in the chocolate sauce. Her skirt is light and sways with her hips. I'm hoping for her to discretely flip it just enough to give me a show. If she did, I think I'd need a change of pants. She didn't -maybe she will next time she wears it. She finishes the beverage and hands it to me in exchange for a fiver and one of those 'frequent buyers cards'. She takes the bill and the card and gives me the change. The card she stamps and picks up the stamp and holds it up-side-down, the card stuck to the stamp. I pull the card up with an audible 'pop' and we share a chuckle. “Cute trick.” I drop the change in the tip jar and say thank you.
This time I follow her out. She sits down and resumes he conversation with her friend. I say thank you and walk to my vehicle. I bite my lip as I step past her. My mind whirling over the skirt and all the naughty things my feral mind would have me do to her. But those thoughts are not becoming of a civil individual, and individual that I am not but I desperately try to pretend to be while I'm wearing someone else's uniform -Damnable corporate masses.