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She was the owner and chef in a café in a small seaside town where I'd stopped for gas. I got a room in the only motel, fortunate that it was as clean as it was cheap. Walking along the main, and only, street, I came upon the café nestled between a used clothing shop and a tiny art gallery.

As I read the menu posted on the window I saw her standing at one of the eight tables, each with a couple dining. A little taller than average, shoulder length raven hair, slender, in a nicely filled out white tee, and, I thought, braless, and black tights, a short apron, tied in front. She talked with the diners, smiling, gesturing with her hands. Standing in three quarter profile she was all curves, from cheekbone to breast to hip, complemented by her ass, thigh and calf, to her ankle.

When she turned to the next table I got my first look at her face, and I was stopped in my tracks, she was that good looking. Either a light suntan or a natural golden complexion, wide dark eyes beneath manicured dark brows, a wide sensuous mouth confirming the existence of bee stung lips. No makeup, or she applied it so skillfully that it looked perfectly natural.

She walked into the small kitchen, her body flowing in an elegant series of small moves, pulled her dark hair back, twisted it up, and pushed a pencil through to hold it in place. Watching as she moved in the kitchen, gracefully turning, stepping sideways, pivoting to the stove ...

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