Across the table, Bridget sneaks a smile; she's caught me staring past her at the man who brings us curried dishes, hot and mild.
His eyes are blue, intensely blue, hot sky; his hair, dark gold; his skin like cinnamon. He speaks in quick-soft accents; Bridget smiles.
We've come here in our summer skirts, heels high, to feast on fish and spices, garlic naan, bare-legged in the night air, hot and mild.
And then to linger late by candlelight in plain view of the waiter where he stands and watches from the doorway, sneaks a smile.
I'd dress in cool silks if I were his wife. We try to glimpse his hands — no wedding band? The weather in his eyes is hot and mild.
He sends a dish of mango-flavored ice with two spoons, which is sweet; I throw a glance across the shady patio and smile.
But this can't go on forever, or all night — or could it? Some eternal restaurant of longing not quite sated, hot and mild.
And longing is delicious, Bridget sighs; the waiter bows; I offer him my hand. His eyes are Hindu blue and when he smiles I taste the way he'd kiss me, hot and mild.