Every single moment she's telling me something.


With a shift of her weight that makes the leather under her sigh,


With a tilt of her head that better allows me to see the variations of green in her eyes,


With a shake of her glass that sends ice tumbling into what remains of a caramel colored drink,


With an adjustment of her skirt to hide (or draw attention to) her endless legs,


With the cool confident way she talks which isn't much like talking but more like dancing with words,


With the slow definite way she takes a drag from the Marlboro draped effortlessly in her hand as she sits under a sign reading "no fume",


With the way she responds to my "smoking kills" comment by saying she finds comfort in death,


With the amused, not annoyed, smirk I get when she catches my eyes travel from her face toward her pristine cleavage.


Every single moment she's telling me something. But what?