Can I have a large G&T please?
A twist of lemon, and just a little ice, but in a chilled glass.
I can't drink it, but I'd like to watch you pour it..........slowly.
The clink of the ice in the glass, the click of the optic as it dispenses the second measure.........
The sudden 'phizz' of the tonic water bottle being opened....
The effervescent surge as the tonic meets the ice, followed by a sudden stillness.
The gentle splash of the lemon, the soft clink of the ice as you place the glass gently on the table in front of me.
Now, the anticipation.......
Watching the condensation running slowly down the glass an droplets soaking and spreading into the paper, marking the place of the glass so that when I pick it up you I know I can place it down in exactly the same place.
Now I reach out my hand, and embrace the glass, steeling myself for the sudden damp chill of it's contact. Even though I know it's a dark January night I can almost feel the sun on my face, hear the whisper of the warm breeze in the grass and the distant lazy drone of bees.
Slowly, I lift the glass to my lips.
My eyes close, and I stop for a moment to feel the tiny sprinkle of bubbles on my nose.
Then I open my eyes, and watch, hypnotised as the light dances on the ice.
I notice the man sittin opposite me at the bar, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Thierry Henry.
He is also transfixed, but not by the drink. His eyes bore into me and I feel my neck becoming suddenly hot.
I slowly lift the glass a little higher and touch the nape of my neck, and look up, unable to resist the intensity of his stare.
His eyes meet mine, and I unconciously gasp.
I feel suddenly weak.
Cautiously I bring the glass again to my lips, allowing a little, a very little of it to touch my tongue.
It is enough. My head clears, and I place the glass slowly and deliberately down, exactly where you first placed it for me.
I know he is still watching me.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the bar, thankful that I chose a top to display my decolletage to it's best advantage.
I dip my finger into the glass, and lift it to my lips as I lift my eyes to meet his.
I run my finger slowly along my lower lip as I look deeply into his fathomless eyes.
He smiles enigmatically, and lifts his glass.
'Salut!' he calls softly, as he slips from his stool and begins to walk towards me.
Trembling, I lift my glass in reply and at last take a long, cooling sip.
'Salut', I murmur, my eyes locked with his as he moves ever closer.
I start to rise from my stool, my heart racing, scarcely able to breathe.
My heel catches the rung, my elbow
slips from the counter, and my drink floats up majestically from my hand.
I watch, as if in slow motion, the glass and it's contents take a seperate, parallel upward course before inevitably losing their fight with gravity.
Sitting on the floor of the bar, I marvel at the sheer volume of the contents of the glass, as I pull the delicate twist of lemon from my cleavage.
OK, so I didn't get the drink, and I didn't get the vav-va -voom, but look at it this way: I'm still on the diet, and I can still dream.
Night all!
