mid calf flat boots

She finds him late one winter’s night where moonlight bleeds into morning.

The samplings are diverse: ale, liquor, sparkling wine, peach schnapps, fruity shots, a nightcap of Sambuca. They sipped to lengthen time, to add moments onto the black night the windows kept at bay, knowing the sun will rise in a few short hours.

Finding several coins in her pocket, Regina plunks them in the jukebox.

“Tom Petty? A bit on the nose, yeah?” Robin grins, staring at her.

“I love Tom Petty.“

And so does he.

Coffee tables become their stage as they stretch for the ceiling’s beams, singing what lyrics they know, unable to hear themselves over the rising volume of “Oh yeah, all right. Take it easy baby.” Seeing their breath form small clouds inside the heated pub, they keep moving around the square columns, their anthem blaring. They jump from one table to the next, empty bottles for microphones, squinting as they reach for the high notes. Robin strums an air guitar, shoulders moving to the beat, the anticipation of the next chorus building. They lose and gain their balance as he leaps onto Regina’s small table, obnoxiously professing the words in her face.

Regina and Robin dance and sing until their voices go a bit hoarse, their throats scratchy from nearly shouting at the top of their lungs, red in the cheeks. It’s heated and rushed, and then their song fades, the moment slows, and in a bout of courage, he inches his body closer to hers. She’s milimeters away, her cheeks flush, her chest rising and falling in time with each breath.

It’s his turn to dart his eyes to her lips, and she licks them in anticipation, whether she realizes she’s doing it or not. He’s so close, towers a head over her with her in her flats. No heels or pumps, just flat soled boots that come mid-calf.

Regina stares up at him, her eyes flicker to his parted mouth, and he notices, grins, bites his lower lip in between his teeth, and she smirks.

He tastes of Sambuca, and guilt-free. Feels like sunshine punching through the clouds on a cold day, wrapped up in his arms, pressed against his chest.

She hadn’t been looking for him, hadn’t been trying to find anything more than knowledge and wisdom cultivated from being buried in the stacks with the Classics and French. But she’d found him nonetheless with his bottle of Sambuca, and his cheeky grin, and dimples that practically begged to be kissed.