I can tell she's been here before, walking to the table with a long, casual glance around the room. Girls who make eye contact have always been there before.
She's laughing at the maitre d's jokes, so I can tell she's thinking about what he'll be doing after his shift. That hair-flippy thing she just did tells me she's interested in doing it with him.
When she excuses herself to the powder room for the second time in an hour, I know she's got a habit. She might not be sniffing in the ladies' room, but she's at least checking her nose for blood. The ones that go sky-high always fly too close to paranoid.
That short, black dress flows over her body like silk, contouring her curves like liquid over eons of evolution. I can tell she works out--but not too much; her body is still supple, thighs rounded in a feminine way.
I can tell she's been a goddess since birth. Manicured nails, expensive pumps and perfume in all the right places tell me she's got money. Her posture and sashay tell me it's old money, not new. That explains the fascination with "the help;" new money never wants to be seen with family. For old money it's a thrill, like shopping Rodeo Drive without Daddy's permission.
I nurse my single malt and roll a match between my fingers. I've had enough of this place already, with the pompous white collars and the hopped-up bimbettes parading around in Vera Wang. It's a job, like any other--though I could've told her husband no, that I didn't see anything tonight, take my grand and leave. But I already know this dame's got years of dirty secrets, begging to be found. I can tell just by looking at her.