
                               Disclaimer

   This is piece of fiction. Its characters have not even
contemplated such things, mostly because said characters do
not exist.  Any imagined resemblance to people living or
deceased is either the result of non-sobriety/dementia/stupidity
on the reader's part or that the reader is, in fact, a character
this story.  None of these are conditions to be proud of, and it
would not be wise to draw attention to one's self by claiming any
similarity.  Any science in this story is so wrong as to get me
expelled by my professors and laughed at by a science fiction writer.

   It is assumed that readers of this story have the permission
of the state, mom, dad, and pastor and are able to tell the
difference between real and make-believe.  Furthermore, the
writer is fully aware that he is bound for hell, but
welcomes both praise or/and well thoughts out, humourous
insults on his writing skill.  Note: he already knows he
cannot spell warth shet.

   The events and descriptions of this story are the sole
property of Kenny N Gamera and should not be recorded,
reposted, or profited from in anyway without express written
permission of the person hiding behind that pen name.
Reposting and free archiving will be tolerated given the
writer's name and address remains attached.  Archiving by
Deja.Com and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and encouraged.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

                      Cute but Just a Tad Too Thin
                                   by
                             Kenny N. Gamera

   I was between the lab and work (guess who is a grad
student) with about forty-five minutes more than I would
need to get from one to the other.  Naturally, this meant
that I would go to enjoy a double latte at my regular coffee
stop and `enjoy' the latest piece of earth shattering
science from _Geochemica,_Cosmochemica_: a speedball of
sorts (simulate, coffee; depressant "Recent advances in the
use of extra-terrestrial barium isotope signatures in
paleobathic reconstruction: The Rhaetian-Norian transition
in Ruritania").  Fortunately for that remnant to my sanity,
Liz was working, Liz being a sweet co-ed with long auburn
hair and a button nose over whom I wanted to make an ass of
myself.

   Fortunately for Liz, I had given up making an ass of
myself for lent.

   Double fortunately for Liz, the weather tempted me out to
the patio.

   After I had gotten my coffee and used the rest room
mirror to get my tie done up for work, I choose a sunny spot
at the far corner of the deck, sat at an umbrella-less mesh-
top patio table and started to enmesh myself in the tangle
of jargon I had brought to read.  I like to read at this
shop versus the library because there are just enough
distractions to keep me from going stir crazy, but it
doesn't have the commotion of the places around campus.  It
takes about a five-minute drive to the stripmall that gives
it the business needed to stay around (but not enough to
attract the evil Starbuck's).  The view is, thus, limited to
the storefronts, the parking lot they surround, and a bank
across the way.  Oh, yes and the occasional babe.

   Speaking of which....

   The woman stepped from a white car, which she had parked
so the first view I had of her would be her legs, encased in
hose/stockings, and a pair of simple, black, short-heeled
pumps.  I watched, I admit, even though they lacked the full
sweeping arch I most adore in a woman's calf.  Why? because
there was just something that caused that little bad part of
me to say, "Tayka look at dem gams, Mr. Gamera."  I have
given up at trying to guess or figure out or brood about the
aesthetics of girl watching; I have learned to just enjoy
the feelings that an attractive woman inspires.

   And she did inspire such feelings.

   Her dark gray skirt fell to a reasonable spot, just below
her knee by maybe a centimeter, tailored to be not loose,
yet following the shape of her body without clinging to it.
This gave a just tempting hint at the shape of her butt,
which I guessed to be slim, yet still high and curved.  I
wished for a moment that she had worn shorts or a pair of
tight jeans.

   Definitely tight jeans, I thought, as she smoothed her
skirt a tad.  She was built to wear tight jeans.  (Yes, guys
are pigs, but you seem to like us anyway, ladies.  Don't ask
me why.)

   She turning away from her smoothing just as the former
thought went through my head, and as the gods of perversity
would have it, she looked right at me.  I don't mean that
she looked in my direction, but that she looked right at me.
We made eye contact at a distance of two healthy non-asian
built car lengths.

   There is a feeling that at least I get as I pass a cop on
the interstate; my heart will speed up and I quickly look
down at the speedometer though I have my cruise control set
to the limit.  That feeling that the state trooper somehow
knows what I want to do and as if somehow I have been
caught.

   I was caught.

   Big time.

   And she knew I knew.

   She smiled a smile that a screenwriter would have called
`knowing' with just a tad of bemusement.  I think.  I don't
know for sure because I quickly averted my eyes and went
back to my reading, in the moral equivalent to the causal
walk of a thief as he saunters away from a burglary.  I
resisted the urge to whistle.

   That would have made it too damned obvious.

   Not that it wasn't already.

   I glanced up by moving only my eyes to take just a peek.
She was not watching me (sound of held breath being
released), but instead she had closed her car's door and
began to strut to the bank (sound of additional held breath
being released).  Her skirt swished back and forth in that
way a tight skirt just won't even try to mimic, amplifying
the rolling gait of her retreating behind.

   I looked at my watch to see that I had just spent twenty
minutes to have only succeeded in embarrassing myself and to
read "Sedimentologists have long looked for evidence of the
depositional depth of sedimentary rocks lacking either
fossils of organisms that provide adequate paleoecologic
information of depth or fossils entirely.  Additionally,
even when the proper organisms are preserved, taphnomic
conditions may not..." about five times.  And I had not
drank enough latte to ensure that I would need to grab a to
go cup for the drive to work.

   With a mighty sigh, I proceeded to knuckle down and
actually begin reading the paper I needed to read for at
least the time I had before I needed to leave.  I did well,
and I had made it to the end of the methods section and
finished half my coffee, when a voice from the seat next to
mine startled me from my concentration enough to make me
jump.

   I looked up and I saw her.  Yes, that her, the woman
whose lower anatomy I had written about above.  While she
was sitting on her fairly nice hind end, I recognized the
gray skirt, the white blouse, and the long, brown hair I had
noticed, but hadn't gotten to admiring, which are two very
different things.  I could now see that her eyes were also
brown, but a very light brown like that of oak wood, not the
dark, almost black of some people's eyes.  Still, they shone
as if they were darker and reflected the same light that
shone on her smile.

   "Sorry," she said in a soft voice.  "I didn't realize
that you so absorbed in what you were reading."

   "Uh," I said in the most suave way a startled,
embarrassed, and guilty guy could manage and still sound
like a dork.

   "I hope you don't mind my joining you, but I thought that
you might like some company"

   "Uh," I again replied as different parts of my brain went
to find where the clever, witty part was hiding.

   She stretched to look around my hand at the photocopied
pages it held (you honestly don't think I could afford to
subscribe to _Geochemica_Cosmochemica_?).  "What are you
reading that is so interesting," she asked.

   "Uh," went that part of the brain not occupied with
looking for the witty, clever part, before it found a store
of words with more syllables.  "A science article."

   "What is it about?"

   I glanced down at it, then looked at her with a sheepish
grin.

   "About twelve pages," I replied while I thought to myself
that I may have been better off with `uh' and that her
dentist deserved a prize for that smile.  Her pouty pinkish
red lips framed those beautifully white teeth.  A vision of
my penis sliding into that mouth popped into my head (see
above note re, men, pigs, etc.)

   She giggled.

   "I apologize," I said as I shook my head.  "I was just
caught off guard, and I am sometimes a little too goofy for
my own good."

   "That's fine."

   "Besides, I don't think you'll understand it."  Her lips
turned down just a tad.  "'Cause, I don't understand it and
I'm a trained professional!"

   She laughed, again.  "You are goofy.  Besides bad comedy
and staring at women, what do you do?"

   I blushed.

   "I'm a grad student at the university."  She shifted
herself so that her chin rested in her right palm with her
arm resting on the tabletop.  She leaned toward be just a
tad more. She looked right at my eyes.  I wanted to play
with my collar, ala Rodney Dangerfield, but resisted the
urge.  "In Geo-chemistry."

   "That's interesting.  I teach science at Gil Thropp
Junior High."

   "What subject," I asked as I did not look with all my
will at her left leg, which swung back and forth as it
rested over her right.  Instead, I glanced away from her
gaze.

   "A little of everything, mostly biology."  I wondered to
myself if she was available for an anatomy lesson. "We have
a half day today so I thought I would go to the bank.
Maybe, get a late lunch as well.  Is the food good here."

   "Avoid the cornball.  And get chips instead of the pasta
salad; it's kinda bland."

   "Are you eating?"

   "No," I look at my watch.  "In fact, I need to go to
work."

   "At the university?"

   "No," I replied as I took a huge swallow of coffee and
threw my stuff together.  She followed as I went inside.
"I'm an assistant manager at Mr. Slot's, at the Towne Mall.
Grant money ran out."

   "Well, I'm Jenny." She presented me her hand.  I took it
and introduced myself.  She than removed a small Dayplanner (c)
from her bag.  "What's your number, Ken?  I'd like to
give you a call sometime this weekend."

   "Sure, no problem," I said before I rattled off the
digits to my number.  "Can I have yours too?"

   She gave me hers after explaining, "I like to get the
guy's number.  They don't always call me after they
promise," she winked at me, "especially after I catch them
checking me out."

   At that note, she went to the counter to order from Liz,
while I dumped my cup in a bus tub and went out the door.

