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Over at the pub on Prince Arthur Avenue, it was someone's birthday, and everyone was pulling out twenty dollar bills at the same time to pay for the pitchers. The warm May breeze off Lake Ontario was rustling the patio umbrellas for the first time since September. He sat on one side of the table between friends, she sat opposite him, and between the two of them, the empties grew, one for one, two for two, until they became less interested in the banter and more interested in each other. Everyone else was too buzzed to notice or care.

She looked at him. She loved how his shirt looked on him with a few buttons opened, casual, rumpled just the right way, sleeves rolled up, and exposing those strong wrists. The wind parted his hair, and picked up his twenty. His hand snapped out to retrieve it at the edge of the table and slid back it again in one graceful movement. She liked his khaki shorts, his deck shoes and no socks. She wanted to feel the texture of his thighs, the wispy hairs and the point where the hem of his shorts ended.

She had enjoyed his attention all evening, what with her short-sleeve, white, lycra top, crisscrossing her bosom tightly. It was tucked into a short little wrap-around denim skirt tied at the side that would open up along her bare thigh whenever she sat and crossed her legs. She'd painted her toenails a cool shade of silver and wore her black sandals with a low heel and an ankle bracelet. She smiled. He smiled back. She looked around, slipped off her sandals into her bare feet, and slowly ...

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