GLASS BALL EYES

I woke up to the muted hum of a Sunday morning, the kind that tempts you to stay in bed. The clock read 10:47 a.m.—late. Even for me.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand.

"Hello, Loren," a familiar, soft voice greeted me. Her name hovered on the edge of my memory. Julia? Jessica? It didn't matter. "Remember today?"

"Of course," I replied smoothly, sitting up. "Where do you want to meet?"

"How about lunch at that café near Briggs Bakery?"

"Déjà Delight?" I asked, already calculating the drive.

"Yes! Their Chinese cuisine is supposed to be great."

"One o'clock?"

"Perfect."

I hung up, exhaling. Déjà Delight—casual, comfortable, and just upscale enough to show effort without overextending. A safe choice.

We'd met a couple of weeks ago at a bar. She wasn't the type to turn heads in a crowd—average height, ordinary face—but that night, she had caught my attention. Maybe it was the way she moved, her confidence evident in every step, or maybe it was her dress. Black, tight, and deliberate. The fabric hugged her curves with precision, and the neckline—a bold, wide cut—left little to the imagination.

Her chest was impossible to ignore, even for someone like me, who prided himself on self-control. Full, round, and framed by that dress like a work of art on display. The soft curve of her cleavage was enough to draw my eyes more than once that evening.

But it wasn't just the visual. It was how she carried herself, aware of the attention without being arrogant. A quiet confidence that made her more intriguing.

She worked as a hotel receptionist, and I had played my part—boasting about my work ethic, my dedication, and my "unwavering" principles. She had seemed impressed—most women were. With my sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and a well-maintained beard (at the time), I had a certain presence. Even Cassandra had commented on my eyes once. I knew how to wield my charm when necessary.

Today, though, I needed to refine that charm. I couldn't show up in my usual work attire. I opted for brown trousers, a fitted polo shirt, and polished leather shoes. Clean-shaven, my reflection reminded me that sometimes, simplicity is power.

Before leaving, I stopped by a florist for a bouquet of roses—a small gesture, but effective.

Déjà Delight was bustling when I arrived, the air thick with the aroma of spices and fresh bread. She was waiting near the entrance, her floral dress catching the sunlight, the fabric light and airy, but cut with intention.

The wide neckline dipped just enough to showcase her assets—full, inviting, and undeniably alluring. Her cleavage, framed by the delicate print of the dress, was a distraction I hadn't quite prepared for. She carried it with effortless confidence, aware of the attention but unfazed by it.

"Hey, Loren," she greeted, her smile warm and inviting. "You look... different."

"Shaved," I said, handing her the bouquet.

Her face brightened as she took the flowers, her fingers brushing against the petals with a gentle touch. "These are beautiful."

"You look better in the sunlight," I said, my tone smooth but measured, maintaining the balance between charm and detachment.

She laughed softly, a sound that invited warmth. I held the door open for her, following her inside, my mind already slipping back into the performance.

Because that's what it always was—a performance.

She smiled at me—warm, inviting, easy. Not the kind of smile that demanded anything, just one that existed in the moment. Comfortable.

"What do you wanna have?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

"Anything. Maybe something Chinese. Chow mein and a coffee."

Simple choice. I ordered the same.

As she talked, her words drifted past me—something about her job, a coworker, and some mundane concern that blurred into the background. I nodded when appropriate, offered a few polite murmurs, but my focus wasn't entirely on her words.

Instead, my attention flickered between her face and the subtle curve of her chest. The neckline of her dress dipped just enough to draw the eye, the soft swell of her cleavage framed perfectly. I made sure my gaze didn't linger too long—brief glances, careful shifts—enough to admire, but not enough to be noticed.

"So… it was quite frustrating," she said, exhaling as if the memory still weighed on her.

"Yeah… work's always frustrating," I replied with a forced grin, my mind elsewhere.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "Wanna have ice cream?"

Her voice shifted—soft, drawn out, almost playful.

"Yes, thanks, Loren," she added, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile that hinted she might have noticed more than I thought.

The chocolate sundae arrived, perfectly sculpted, and she dug in without hesitation. I watched as she took her first bite, the red lipstick on her lips staining the ice cream. I couldn't help but notice the way she savored it, her lips lingering on the spoon, just enough to catch my attention.

She caught me looking and smirked. "You're staring."

I coughed, looking away, feigning nonchalance. "Just making sure you like it."

She smiled, clearly amused. "It's good. You have good taste." But then she shifted in her seat, and her voice became more casual as she launched into a story about her day at work, her complaints about her coworkers, and her general discontent. I nodded along, but honestly, my mind was elsewhere.

She was attractive enough, but not the type I would normally get distracted by. Her dress was nice—a floral number that clung in all the right places, the neckline dipping just enough to make me notice. I had promised myself not to get distracted. But it was hard not to.

"So, how's your boss?" she asked between bites, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

I blinked, pulled out of my thoughts. "My boss? Uh... he's fine." I cleared my throat. "A little cocky, but what else is new?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Cocky bosses. They're all the same."

I forced a smile. "Yeah." I wasn't really listening anymore. My mind was caught on the slight tremor of her voice, the way she leaned forward a little too eagerly, her words becoming more like an invitation than a conversation.

I could feel the pull of attraction, but I refused to acknowledge it. She was just another face, just another night.

Her voice broke through again. "You really don't listen, do you?"

I tried to salvage the conversation. "I'm listening."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay then. What's my name?"

I froze. My mind blanked. "Uh... Jessi?"

Her smile faltered. "Unbelievable."

I watched as she stood up, grabbing her purse with a quick motion, a sudden change in her demeanor. She looked at me, the flirtation fading into something far more serious. "You're not even interested in me. I should've known better."

I opened my mouth, but the words got stuck. She turned her back on me, heading for the door.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. She had turned the date into something uncomfortable, something I didn't have time for. She was upset—rightfully so, maybe—but I couldn't chase her down.

But then I saw it.

A group of older men, lingering on the sidewalk outside. Their eyes were locked on her as she walked past, their leering gazes enough to make my blood boil. One of them, a larger man, stepped into her path with a grin that didn't sit right with me.

"Hey there, sweetheart," he said, blocking her way.

She looked up at him, but I could see the annoyance in her expression, her body language screaming that she wasn't interested.

I couldn't stand it. I stepped toward them, my voice sharp. "What do you think you're doing?"

The man turned slowly, sizing me up with a dismissive glance. "Relax, kid. We're just talking."

"Let her go," I said, stepping into their space, my fist clenching without thinking.

She tried to move around him, but he grabbed her arm with a heavy hand, his grip tightening. I saw red.

I didn't give him a chance to speak. My fist found his face, the crack of bone echoing in the cold night air. He stumbled back, holding his nose, blood streaming down his chin.

The others muttered under their breath, but they didn't stick around. I turned to the girl, my heart still racing.

"Are you okay?" I asked, but she barely looked at me.

"I didn't ask for your help," she said, her voice cold, flushed with embarrassment. She thrust the bouquet of roses I had bought into my hands and took a step back.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, but she wasn't interested in hearing it.

"Don't bother," she snapped. "I'd rather walk home."

She turned, walking away into the night, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

I stood there for a long moment, staring after her, the bouquet feeling heavier in my hands. A cab rolled by, and I saw her flag it down. She gave the driver an address, and I was already pulling out my wallet, handing the driver cash. I didn't know why I did it, but something told me I had to.

I watched the cab disappear down the street, the date officially over.

I leaned against the lamppost, the night suddenly feeling colder.

It was a disaster. But maybe, in some twisted way, it was exactly what I deserved.

She stood there, eyes searching mine, hoping for something real. But I wasn't interested in offering it. Not now, not ever.

She wanted a connection, a spark, something more than casual chatter.She wanted something real, something genuine, a connection that went beyond the surface.

But I couldn't offer it. Not today. Not ever.

I watched her turn away, the weight of her disappointment hanging in the air. She wanted a true connection, but I failed to offer it.