17:42 · Collins Avenue · Miami Beach
Collins Avenue. A café terrace. The sun is setting over the palm trees, the air is heavy, the asphalt is still burning.
You and Judy are sitting face to face. Iced coffee. Nothing special. The afternoon drifting by.
Two tables away — a woman. Alone. Tight black bodysuit, slightly shiny leather, shoulder pads. Pink cat-ear helmet resting on the chair opposite. Black, opaque visor.
She is staring at you. Not a normal look. A LOOK. Her instinct is RINGING. Her gaze travels down over you — slowly, like a scanner taking its time. Your face — jaw a bit slack, unshaven for two days, mouth slightly open. Your neck — tendons visible when you turn your head, Adam's apple moving when you swallow. Your shoulders — broad under that wrinkled, ill-fitting t-shirt that hides nothing of the build underneath. Your arms — veins running under the skin down to your wrists. Your hands — large, thick fingers, unkempt nails. Your torso — she can guess the pectorals under the cotton, the body hair, the heat.
And between your legs. What she PICKS UP without even touching you. Her instinct maps everything. Every centimeter. Everything that shitty t-shirt is trying to hide. Her stomach tightens. Her spine vibrates. Heat between her thighs. Dilated pupils.
She stands up. Crosses the tables. Sits at yours — without asking, without apologizing, without a glance at Judy. "...uh, excuse us, this is taken actually—" Judy starts a sentence she won't finish, because the woman ignores her — she doesn't ignore you, though, just you, only you. "You've got an iced coffee face, Handsome." Her voice is low, raspy, charged with something you can't put a word to — and while she talks to you, her hand grabs your glass, brings the rim to her lips, drains the contents in one go without breaking eye contact. Sets the empty glass down. Judy's now, because she doesn't care. Her hand slides under the table. Rests on your crotch. Flat. Motionless. Then she FEELS — slowly — and she CONFIRMS. Her jaw opens. Saliva between her lips. A low sound, almost a whimper. Her eyes are glowing — not normally, from the INSIDE. A vibrant, pulsing gleam. Slit pupils, feline, inhuman. Her body arches slightly. Her breathing quickens. It's not possible. It's not HUMAN. It's MINE.
She blinks. Comes back. Wipes the saliva from the corner of her lip. Pulls her hand back. Normal pupils. As if nothing happened. Judy looks at you over her coffee, nervous. "...you okay? Do you know this chick?" She glances toward the woman then quickly looks away. "Anyway... it's probably nothing. Forget what I said."
She doesn't hear. Takes out a pen. Writes seven digits on a coaster. Places the paper in front of you. "Call me tonight. Or tomorrow. Not the day after." Stands up. Pink helmet on. Cat ears in the setting sun. Leans into your ear — her lips brush your skin, her hot breath, her scent of leather and something sweet: "You're not ready for what I'm going to do to you."
She walks away. The superbike is parked three cars down — a black panther resting on the asphalt. Yamaha YZF-R1, full matte black fairing, titanium exhaust line still sizzling, low seat, raised handlebars, gold inverted forks, floating brake discs. No stickers. No traces. No plate. The kind of machine that draws every eye but that no one remembers anything about. She mounts it with a fluid movement, leg lifted, hip pivoted, bodysuit ripped in just the right places. Key turned. The four-cylinder EXPLODES — a dry, metallic roar that bounces between the facades of Collins Avenue. Vibrations in the ground. Coffee cups tremble on the tables. Head turned toward you. One second. Two. She raises a finger — index pointed straight at you across the terrace. Then full throttle. Front wheel lifts for the first twenty meters. She merges into traffic without braking, weaves between two taxis, disappears into the flow of Collins Avenue behind a bus. The sound of the engine stretches, shrinks, then nothing.
You. Judy. That number. And that silence.
The waiter passes by, picks up the empty glass from the chair opposite. Looks at the coaster. Looks at you. "...did you know that lady?" He shakes his head, wipes the table. "Because the terrace isn't a swinger's club, you know. Just for info." He leaves. Judy watches him walk away, then you, then the number on the coaster. "...you're not going to call her, are you?" Her voice says one thing. Her eyes say another. She takes a sip of her coffee — the one that's left, not the one that was stolen. Sets the cup down. Too hard. "Like, she's a random. She touched your balls in public. In front of ME. And you're just there, like that, with her digits in your face, and you say NOTHING?" She crosses her arms. Leg trembling under the table. "...where is she, now? Is she coming back? Because if she comes back, I'm out. I didn't sign up for this."