One

Bohemian … is the style she chose whenever she’s not at work. Flower bandana around her head, her favorite orange sunglasses, a leather sling bag, and leather straps and sandals wrapped around her lean long legs up to her knees.

“How do I look?” she asked Perry, her housemate.

He tilted his head to one side and rested his hands on his waist. Even without make-up, her face was naturally beautiful. “Like Margot Simmins … a free-spirited hippie who roams the city without a care in the world … looking for the next unassuming gentleman who’s about to get his next great lay and left to wonder what the fuck just happened to him,” he hugged her from behind. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard already,” he chuckled.

“Oh please … guys love no commitment fucks, they’d do it every day if they can.”

“Not all of them … especially those who drink their coffee quietly at the coffee houses you go to … for a nice person like you, what you’re doing is pretty cruel, you know?”

She turned to face him and squeezed his cheeks, “You have too much faith in men … even the most innocent looking one, married to a fantastic woman, rarely passes the opportunity for a free, no strings attached, good lay.”

“No married man! You promised!” Perry protested.

“Of course not … I’m just saying … don’t feel bad for them, it’s just physical fun … it’s not like I can do it with you.”

He rolled his eyes, “Be careful … make sure he’s clean, single, and not dangerous.”

“Okay, mom, … I got protection,” she showed him a condom from her bag.

“Check in with me whenever you can … and don’t get drunk!”

She was a 32-year-old woman but Perry always made her feel like a teenager whenever she was about to do her thing. “Yes, daddy,” she mocked him.

“Okay … go break a heart then,” he spread his arms for another hug, and Margot Simmins was out the door.

**********

She’s a knockout, and she knew it. She knew she could use it to her advantage, not because beauty was power, but because some people have a weakness for beauty. Her power was her confidence. She knew exactly what she wanted and she has the skills to get it. She didn’t need anyone to accomplish her goals, she had done it all on her own. She never let her physical need become a weak link in her life. Getting into a relationship just to have someone to sleep with was not practical.

She didn’t do well with relationships, not after her divorce. Most men were intimidated by her passion, and her boldness to live life the way she wanted to. She outshined almost every man she had ever been with, and they didn’t like it.

They tried to dim her lights and kept her to themselves. Once she’s tamed, plucked from the tree she blossomed on, they got tired of her and left her to dry. She learned her lessons.

So she went out to town every once or twice a month to quench her thirst. She went out in the day because meeting men in bars at night made her feel like a desperate slut who’d spread her legs for all kinds of douchebags who were looking for a match.

She liked to strike a conversation with her prey, and know a little bit about his background, not coming off as if she was looking for a fix. Just a friendly talk with a bit of flirting. That way, she can assess the guy whether he was clean, married, a loser, or not. Even for a one-night stand, she was picky.

She walked into a random coffee place by the busy streets of Lancaster. Ordered a cup of coffee while she scanned the room for an unsuspecting good looking guy who sat alone. Once she spotted him, she’d order another thing before taking a seat next to the guy.

She would sit close enough for them to brush elbows or hands, put one sugar in her coffee and wait for the waiter to bring her next order. That was when she knocked off the tray to the table next to her, and looked the guy in the eyes to catch his first impression.

Did he look twice? Was he annoyed and went back to what he was doing? Did he have a friendly and inviting smile she could work on? Did she blush at the sight of her? In which case she didn’t have to work much at all, or did he have any gesture that might suggest he was gay? She had to summarize all that in that first encounter or otherwise she would be wasting her time.

He was looking down at his book, legs crossed. “Love is A Dog From Hell” by Charles Bukowski. An excellent choice of literature, she thought. He was wearing a long-sleeved knitted sweater and washed-out blue jeans, dark brown leather boots, too clean for hiking boots, he looked more like an indoor guy.

With a few strands of silver between his wavy black hair, he was scruffy but neat. She reckoned he was in his early or mid-forties, no rings on his fingers. His nails were trimmed and clean, his hands looked soft, and must be a white collar. There was a subtle musky scent coming from him, cedarwood or tobacco Vanille, somewhere in there that seduced her sense of smell. Good hygiene. Nice, she thought.

He was deep in thought with his book, he didn’t even notice her when she sat at the table next to him. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but his profile already caught her attention. When the strawberry waffle sprinkled with powdered sugar fell on his table, he finally looked up.

His light brown eyes under his thick dark eyebrows looked at her, they didn’t blink. He wasn’t frowning, nor was he smiling. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes pierced through her. He was as handsome as a movie star with the kind of calmness of Michael Corleone. He even looked the right ethnicity, he looked Italian.

“I’m so sorry … I wasn’t looking … I’m so clumsy, please let me get you a new cup of coffee … can you bring whatever this nice man was drinking and put it on my tab?” she said to the waiter.

The waiter glanced at the man as if he was waiting for confirmation.

“Bring me the same thing, and for the lady … whatever she ordered, it’s on me … don’t worry about it,” his voice was deep and commanding, cool and calm, just like his demeanor. He closed his book and put it aside to help the waiter get the plates out of the way.

“Oh no … please let me pay for it, it was my fault,” she said.

His eyes were sharply pointed at her, a faint curve on one side of his lips told her he was amused. “A gentleman never lets a woman pay for his drinks,” he replied.

She smiled, she liked him already.

“Anyways, I’m a regular here … I’ve never seen you here before … so you’re like my guest,” he continued.

Cocky, she thought, but most intriguing and extremely good-looking. “Thank you … I was just passing by, this place looked inviting and quiet enough unlike most places on the weekends.”

He sat back and smiled, his cool stare made her nervous. “Must be my lucky day,” he said.

That statement was the assurance she needed to move forward with her plans. She extended her hand, “I’m Margot.” Her eyes twinkled, admiring the face she will be in bed with before the day ends.

His grip was firm, his hand was soft, “Richard.”

She moved to the chair across from him when the coffee arrived. “So Richard … what do you do?”