They’d meet at the museum. She’d be on her own. He’d be on his own. A tour would go past and the guide would make some poor attempt at humour. Maybe he’d make a quip and she’d hear him. She’d giggle and throw a smile his way. He was cute, after all. She’d be mesmerised by his eyes if he happened to glance her way — which he would, briefly, winking. Then they’d both go their separate ways, but stumble into each other repeatedly. Eventually he’d smoothly make the observation that clearly the universe wants them to have drinks. She’d blush and accept.
He’d have convinced her to go to his apartment. She knows better than to do that with a stranger, but she’d be helpless to refuse under his intense gaze. She’d say yes, simply because it felt like he were commanding her to say yes. The thought made her body tingle with excitement.
She’d go to his apartment, and he’d make her a drink. Maybe he’d touch her arm. She’d readjust her blouse to show off more of her cleavage. She’d put her hand on his while laughing at some absurd comment that wasn’t even funny. She’d notice the way he was looking at her, hungrily, expectantly. She’d lean closer and look directly into his penetrating eyes. He’d smirk at her in a way that made her knees weak.