Saturday, November 02, 2002

Legal Lunch -- Table One

He leans forward with the terrific easy physique of a footballer, rugby boy, his muscles are busting out of that odd flesh-colored ribbed turtleneck. Why's he got a sweater on anyway --yes, it's 20 degrees out but there's so much heat coming off this guy, he might as well be in a clothing optional world. You got a love him. He's sunny and happy like a pretty eager golden retreiver. And he's trying in every way to lean across the table and let her know it.

But check her out. Crash, heart ache heading your way boy, when I look into her icy porcelain face. Pretty english girl looks -- china shop white skin and black straight hair, but more than English, something mixed in there to make her more exotic, maybe half Japanese, and very beautiful. But may I tell you, kind eager guy, run for your life. She's fine and special and complicated in ways you will be so sorry to learn about and she'll do you serious damage dear. She leans back in her seat, stretched as far away from him as she can. Nothing on the menu is right. Something he did last night, brings a slightly sour expression to her face. Run now.