Diane fixed the strap slowly because Arthur had already noticed it. The honest thing would have been to look away. He tried, almost managed it, then failed in the reflection of the bar mirror.
She was forty-two, old enough to know the difference between attention and hunger. Arthur was sixty-seven and still handsome in the weathered way, with careful hands and a face that apologized before his mouth did.
The lounge had gone soft around them. Low music. Ice clicking in short glasses. Men pretending to watch the game while watching women who knew exactly what was happening.
Diane lifted one hand to her shoulder. The dress stayed decent. That made the moment worse, not easier. It was only a strap, a small correction, a thin black line drawn back into place.
You are very polite, she said.
Arthur looked at the napkin under his glass. I am trying to be.
That answer pleased her. Bragging would have spoiled it. A younger man might have leaned in too fast, said something too shiny, made desire sound cheap. Arthur stood there with the old discipline of a man who had learned what wanting could cost.
Diane asked if he was still looking.
He should have lied. They both knew it. Instead he met her eyes and said, not where I should be.
The truth warmed the room. Diane smiled, then turned her shoulder just enough to show him the strap was perfectly in place now. Nothing had changed. Everything had. She picked up her drink and told him the night was not over unless he needed it to be. Arthur heard the challenge and stayed.
