Chapter Text
The girl was certainly his type. Full figure, firm breasts, fresh face, nice eyes, sweet smile, pretty but not too pretty... the flirtation on the bus was flattering. He wasn't actually old enough to be her father, although that thought was sobering. Suddenly he imagined a naive Rosamund flirting with an older man in a failing marriage. He turned back, thinking that he should warn her off somehow, and caught sight of his reflection and the absurd flower. He relaxed. It was all fine, she'd been having a gentle laugh at the silly middle aged man. He turned away and startled. The sweet young thing was directly in front of him, smiling, shyly speaking. He chatted her up a bit, operating on social autopilot. When she gave him her number, he laughed, speechless.
He stared at the slip of paper, wondered if he should call her, just to caution her. She wasn’t a child, though. He smiled a bit, wishing he were ten years younger, wishing he was unattached, wishing he were more optimistic about love, about life. He folded the paper and started to drop it in the waste bin. Unbidden, an Irish face, an Irish voice, another slip of paper flirtatiously offered, all floated up from his memory.
“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”
Bollocks.
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N.B. According to the great and wonderful miracle worker, Ariane Devere, the mysterious redhead has a Scottish accent. I bow to her superior expertise and edited this a bit. I still think there is something rotten going on... (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/)