She saw him by chance.
He was standing across the street, waiting for a bus. She was sipping coffee, watching through the café’s window. He was certainly a looker. He had almost swept her off her feet the night before. They were in the club; music pounding, drinks flowing freely. He’d asked for a dance. He was just a little bit demanding, a touch arrogant. They had danced anyway. Then he disappeared into the crowd. At the bar she knew the barmaid from school. She said she’d seen them dancing; asked if he had been a bit pushy. She had said he was OK, that he just wanted a dance
After serving a customer she came back with the information that he didn’t have a job, she had a suspicion that he was a drug dealer. His older brother was in prison, she knew that for a fact.
She thought about how he had showed up later asking for another dance and how politely she had declined. He was obviously put out and momentarily glared at her before walking away.
Looking at him now, in his expensive suit, his nice haircut and polished shoes, he was a good looking guy, a really good catch for a girl. She reflected on the notion that you just couldn’t judge a book by its cover. The truth of it was that he was probably a rotten guy in a nice looking body. A bad egg, you might say, perfectly acceptable on the outside, until you crack it open, then you’d get the stink. Maybe she felt a little of that last night.
She would like to think so.