Not as it would seem

From across the piazza, light from the nightclub spills out onto the cobblestone courtyard through the big glass window that wraps around their bar. It is a familiar place, but it is late in the evening and I need to get home to you.

As I turn away to keep walking, I notice the woman sitting on a bar stool at the long thin table pressed against the window, summer dress to her knees, bare legs with sensible black shoes swinging to some internal rhythm. There you are, drinking wine and reading. I cannot help but smile at the incongruity of you reading in a club with all the music and dancing behind you.

As I stop and watch you, you are absorbed in the book, your raven hair loose and covering the left side of your face, the hint of a smile on your lips. From the distance I can not tell what you are reading. Your neck adorned with a silver chain, the top couple of buttons of your dress are open and as you lean into the book, there is just a hint of the curves I know so well.

You smile, turn the page, and take a sip from the wine glass. 

It is late, and I need to get home to you.