Eye Candy

She stared lasciviously at the sexy man talking to her husband. Sharp features, slight stubble, short hair, ready laugh, confidence oozing from every pore. She drank him in with her orange juice. Dreaming about him would be easy. That face and the well-toned body were easy to memorise, to imprint on her mind, on her body. She felt hot, trapped in her clothing. The air-conditioning was no use as the heat and the view warmed her senses. He smiled, reaching out a sinewy forearm for his coffee. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and smiling indulgently at her husband. Sighing, resigned, she watched the man she was married to—a study in contrast—talking and eating noisily, ketchup adorning the extremities of his mouth. If he knew she was staring, leching, at another man there would be hell to pay. Defiant, unafraid, she stared on. Her burkha had its uses…