Viktor first spotted the exotic beauty at a dinner party, one that he’d almost failed to attend. He barely knew anyone on the guest list, and he was never much of a people person. All the same, something had compelled him to go. Now, as he stood paralyzed in the foyer with his coat half removed, he understood why he was there: not just the party, mind you, but perhaps earth itself.
Over the course of dinner, Viktor hardly spoke a word. Even when people addressed him directly, he had a difficult time taking his mind off her, never mind his eyes. He wasn’t proud of the way he gazed at her legs – he’d never been so inappropriately distracted – but neither had he seen anything so beautiful in all his years. Her gentle curves were smooth but strong, her age was a mystery that he yearned to solve. He didn’t dare ask so soon, but if he had to guess, she looked like a Monique.
Viktor invented an excuse to return the following day. He claimed to have forgotten his gloves, which he then pretended to discover behind the love seat. It was well worth the ruse, for there she was, still waiting near the foot of the stairs, radiant in mid-morning light. He gathered his courage, searched for words that had never eluded him before, and finally spoke. “Excuse me,” he sputtered, “but I was wondering if this table is indeed a Monique, and if so, might you be interested in selling?”
Copyright (c) 2015 Robert Esckelson