you are precisely my cup of tea

She stopped the cup at her lips.
'No', she laughed quietly under her breath, 'that's not Silent Cal'.
'Could be. He's not doing anything'.
She sipped. 'Statues aren't suppose to do anything'.
'That's my whole point. Have at'm pigeons'!
She smiled. That's what I wanted. Her smile, even lovlier than her eyes, fooling no one sitting opposite, the clean blue and white oil-clothed tea room table with generous street view, her face shadowed by a light blue ball cap that could not hide that she was definitely not a boy, over-sized gray t with black curve-revealing leggings darting out a black short skirt, and orange slip-on leather shoes.
'Why so stern'? she mused, small ring-less delicate hands turning her tea cup, red-lipped profile in the light now, looking up at the infamous Broadway poster across the street.
'Maybe he's not found true love', I said, carefully watching her face, hopeful. She looked at me quick, then down into her cup.
'Is it half full or half empty?' I asked barely audible, my mouth dry, longing for hers.
She twisted her mouth and closed one eye, schoolgirl now, pretending to rack her brain. I interrupted before she could answer.
'By the way - orange shoes'?
She spun in her chair and gave a precision Rockette kick, hat flying off to expose disheveled fair hair, slim waist exposed, her toe seemingly coming inches from the ceiling. Everyone in the joint applauded appreciatively, similar to an enthusiastic audience relieved at the conclusion of a three hour lecture on embalming.
'I love you.' My whole body seemed numb, helpless, as in a dream.
Her chest heaved, eyes sparkling and she glowed. 'I'm hungry.'


photo: Lee Friedlander

'Getting to know you,
Putting it my way,
But nicely,
You are precisely,
My cup of tea.'
~Oscar Hammerstein,
Getting To Know You