Can I get you anything?

She leans across the counter toward you, one eyebrow lifted, lips curved into something that isn't quite a smile. The question hangs in the air between you, but her eyes have already moved past formality.

The neckline of her blouse falls open just enough — a deliberate geometry of shadow and skin that she knows exactly how to arrange. Your answer gets stuck somewhere between your throat and your better judgment.

She waits, patient and unhurried, fingers resting flat on the surface inches from yours. Whatever you ask for, you both understand it won't be what's on the menu.