Sorbélina

Sometimes a girl sits next to her boyfriend, and gives you a manic grin that says, "Shall we swing?"
She has the dusty rose version of my fake fur coat, limbs of flourish and dancing eyes. Pretty but too bombastic.

It's a wintery, indoor night and I'm rugged up and toned down, so she can't see I'm usually a show-pony like her.
I got a relaxed daddy vibe by comparison under my cascades of beanie'd blonde, and maybe she digs that.

Her body language is overt - without words she cannot eat her sorbet silently.
One leg hanging over the other, pointed toe, exaggeration of feminine traits.

She turns to look at me and I look back.

She is sharing a small mountain of frozen yellow confection with her baseball-capped beau, and I get the feeling I'm on an unwritten menu as their shareable after-dessert dessert.

I won't be going with home with her - this possible blonded doppelganger - but I would go home with that jacket, even if it means peeling it slowly from her lean white arms and tasting her sorbet-sweetened lips.
I'm a whore for a good fake fur.