Third Date

She talked and talked and talked,
an East Coast, cultured accent;
        
"So what are you anyway,
half-German? ***, really?
But you look so......British, I guess..."

He stroked her knee.

She gesticulated loudly,
and talked.
        
"So you were at Princeton,
WOW, that's impressive."

He squeezed her knee.

"I baked cupcakes on Friday night,
  my Mom's recipe.
  I don't even eat cupcakes,
  what's that all about?!?!

He squeezed her other knee.

She wore a mid-thigh,
black and white dress,  
swirls, that sort of thing,
interesting cleavage.
        
He was back on the first knee.

She looked Italian
(it was 'Ristorante Acqua al Duo' after all),
Amy Winehouse eye flares,
head swaying,
resting on her palms,
swaying again.

He had his back to me.

She fingered the wine glass,
tall and generous,
devoured
the last inch,
came up for air and talked again.

He wore a blazer
and cavalry twill pants,  
loafers and no socks.

She was hot,
really hot,
fanned her brow with the dessert menu
"Tiramisu was so deeeelicious".
75 degrees on the Prudential window.

He  perspired,
fidgeted,
loosened his collar,
looked for the waitress.