Chivalry Instinct

The skirt of her pastel pink dress was blowing in the wind. She tried to keep it down as best she could before anyone saw it fly up, and was successful. But that wouldn’t do. I would wait for another convenient gust of wind before I made my move. I would save her from the lecherous stares that were sure to follow.

I kept watching her from my seat in the patio of the café I often frequented. Normally, I would have left by now, after a single cup of Arabian (cream, no sugar). But she had captured my interest—and triggered my chivalry instinct, something that most 24 year olds would have long abandoned by now.

Her dress had cap sleeves and a rectangular neckline. The dress fit perfectly on her frame and its soft pink colour accentuated her skin nicely. But the best part was the skirt. It went down three-quarters of her thigh, showing off her rich brown legs attractively. She paced in front of the patio, often looking at the delicate silver watch on her wrist, grasping the manila envelope she held in her opposite hand a little tighter.

I motioned towards the barista that was clearing the table next to mine and asked him for another cup of coffee. The barista nodded his eyebrows raised slightly at the unexpected request. As he was about to go back into the café he looked at the girl, who was now standing almost directly in front of my table. The wind was still rustling her skirt.

I had an urge to protect her. “Um, I’d like a slice of lemon cake as well.” The barista turned his gaze towards me, a second unexpected request. “I’ll get right on it.” He said this quietly, there was the slightest hint of snugness in his voice. He knew I didn’t want any damn cake.

I wondered vaguely who this girl could possibly be waiting for so anxiously. Probably a guy. I didn’t like that thought. I allowed my mind to wander and fantasies of her gratitude when I saved her circled through my head. “Thank you ever so much,” She’d say. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She stopped near my table and checked her watch. I smiled slightly when as if on cue, the wind sent her skirt up. It took me about three steps to reach her; I quickly stood directly in front of her and placed my hands on her hips to keep her skirt down.

She froze. When I looked up and saw the look of absolute shock on her pretty face, I realized what I had done. I looked down at my hands, then at her face and back at my hands. “Your dress, it lifted.” I had reacted without thinking. I had no idea what exactly I had intended to do, but this was not it. I should have offered her the other seat at my table, so she wouldn’t have to stand in the wind. Or I could have stood in front of her in a way that blocked her panties-if she was wearing any-from view. Anything but what I had actually done; I had become exactly the sort of letch I was trying to protect her from.

She cleared her throat. There was an uncomfortable moment of eye contact before I realized that I was still holding on to her. I looked down suddenly hating the cotton barrier between us. I had unconsciously started tapping her left hipbone with my thumb. “Ah,” I said and let go of her hips, mortified.

“Well, thank you,” she was smiling awkwardly as I retreated to my seat. “Most guys wouldn’t go out of their way to be chivalrous like that.” If I hadn’t just sat down, I probably would have fallen over. This girl understands me. I gestured towards the other chair. “Are you waiting for someone? Sit down.” She looked at the envelope in her hands and sat down across from me. “It’s no one important.”

The barista returned with my second coffee and the lemon cake I didn’t want. He turned to the girl, asking her if she wanted anything. “A medium milk tea, please.” He nodded then looked at me as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and left. No doubt he saw what transpired just moments before.

I gingerly took a bite out of the cake, and then put my fork down. I should have gotten a cream puff. “Is it good?” She asked. I nodded, “It’s quite tangy.” There was nothing else to say. I watched as she picked her envelope from the table, wondering vaguely what was in it. As if she knew what I was thinking, she gave me a “wouldn’t you like to know” sort of look. I took another bite of lemon cake.

“What I have in this envelope,” she said, smiling “is the result of rushing into marriage at the age of 22.” My eyes flicked to her left hand. There was no ring and no indication that there ever was one. “Less than a year later, and I’m filing for divorce before my 23rd birthday…he’ll freak out.” She added absently.

Over her shoulder, I could see a guy running toward the café, checking his watch and frowning. He seemed to speed up after looking in our direction. I took a sip of my coffee, hiding a smile. Divorce papers! Maybe I could save her after all.