“Excuse me!” She called.
Playfully she came half running across the sand, everything about her form relaxed and sun-supple, inviting touch.
“Hey,” she smiled. “Do you guys have a light?”
She wore a thick French accent, and so well. It saturated her.
She was slight but well proportioned; a sharp, defined beauty disarmed quite perfectly by the gap between her two front teeth.
I smiled at her.
And she smiled back.
Her eyes, deep and exploring, drifted between us.
To my surprise, Max produced a lighter from one of the many pockets of his torn khaki trousers.
“Here,” he offered. “Though I think it has sand in it.”
The girl took it without a word, placed the cigarette between her lips and cupped the lighter with both hands. With a single grinding flick it ignited and she introduced it to the tip, holding my gaze the entire time.
With the pursing of her lips the cigarette blossomed.
She held the smoke for a moment, and exhaled.
“Thank you,” she said, in that unmistakably French way, tossing the lighter back to Max.
Then she turned and began retracing her footprints along the beach, looked back once to bless me with a last smile, eyes laced with suggestion.
In response to Daily Prompt: Provoke.