Marie

The Italian woman, at my local milk bar, flirts with Scott Tander. There's no doubt it – those eyes, that mouth, the way she runs her tongue around her teeth. She's got an older husband, maybe twenty years, and two young boys.

She smiles at Scott, in that way that isn't just about the milk he’s buying. She caress' her breasts absentmindedly. Well, not really, but Scott noticed, just lately, that her hand is always somewhere around her chest.

Today she caressed Scott’s hand, as she gave him the change. He kind of jerked his hand away, instinctively. Clearly, we're not supposed to touch now a days. Then she kind of smiled. Scott laughed nervously. And they paused, momentarily. It was a very weird energy. She ran her tongue around her teeth, just really subtlety, if it hadn’t been for the breast touching and the hand rubbing, Scott probably wouldn’t have thought any thing about it.

Sometimes, even as her husband is greeting Scott, she's making eyes at him.

Scott was happy to think that it was all in his own head. You know, maybe just a transference from him, at the times he is, should we say, toey. But now he has become aware of it, he thinks it's her. It kind of creeps him out, just a bit.

“Thanks Mrs K,” says Scott.

“Call me Marie,” she replies.

Happy Australia Day.