The waiter had just handed me my third glass of champagne when the love of my life waved at me from across the room. To steel my nerves I poured the entire glass down my throat.
Devastatingly handsome still, perhaps more so with a makeover, my heart skipped a beat before I realised it would be rude if I didn’t return his wave.
Pairing a skinny black tie with a fitted blue shirt, this was so not how I had imagined he would look at our first chance-meeting-after-the-breakup.
He never used to like the fitted style. “It cramps my style,” he said.
I’m getting cramps in my stomach just ogling his biceps, all their sinewy glory revealed from under those cropped sleeves.
“I could chew on those arms and not starve for a week,” I had said to a girlfriend in confidence. At this moment, I think my cramps are giving me indigestion.
He’s also spotting a shorter ‘do compared to that scruffy curly mess that I would run my fingers through when he kissed me. I used to adore that curly mess. Now, I’m just crazy over his new cropped style.
Yes, crazy. I would definitely be crazy to fall in love with him again.
I needed some strength, even if it was Dutch courage. I grabbed the nearest waiter, “May I have another champagne please?”
Even in the most abject despair, one should never forget their p’s and q’s, mother had taught.
Lopping over to my table, his thigh muscles straining under those fitted trousers, my gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to his crotch.
He kissed me on the cheek, “You look good, but you reek of alcohol.”
“Thank you, and I believe that’s what the host intended.”
“May I join you?”
I was alone on a couch big enough for three. I couldn’t say no.