Interlude in India

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Miller tilted his chair back cautiously, with the gentle regard for chair legs that all large men develop. He wanted to be able to watch her as she returned from the women’s room. He stared absently out over the murmuring mass of uniformed coffee drinkers, faces dark and light, bobbing and sipping and staring. Turbaned Indian bearers in dirty white slid by his obstructing back, carrying trays of battered china. Over all, the bitter haze of coffee tang and tobacco smoke, accenting the morning sun slanting across the large room.

Soon the Eurasian girl reappeared, coming toward him with the careful lilt, on her long, thin legs. His face tightened just a bit as he realized for the hundredth time that she swung her hips just a bit more provocatively when walking through a roomful of men. He made aimless motions at getting up until she was safely seated, then relaxed again.

“Coffee’s cold, Sal. Want some fresh?”

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