The pub was half-empty. Peter was sitting at one of the end tables, staring at a woman’s leg, bare to mid-thigh. He finished his drink and continued to watch. About twenty minutes ago, he had parted ways with a friend of his, with whom he had discussed the results of the matriculation exams and the matches of his favorite football team. If it weren’t for that leg and its owner, he would have left long ago. He tried not to stare, so as not to be caught in indecent behavior. He turned his head left and right, pretending to be bored, but he hardly took his eyes off the interesting object. It was summer and his hormones were raging.

The woman was much older than him, probably in her thirties. But she was beautiful, and very much so. Pale, somewhat plump face with nice features. Black, intelligent eyes. Waist-length, straight black hair. Rounded breasts that bulged seductively out of the green blouse made of fine cotton. The waist was not clearly visible, but Peter imagined it to be thin. The long fingers of the hands playfully nudged the empty coffee cup. The left leg, carelessly thrown over the right, was more than impressive. Perfect light skin. Large but firm thigh. A knee in which everything was smooth, as if there were no bones underneath. An elegant spindle-shaped calf. A thin ankle and a small but elongated foot with soft-looking toes and provocative black nail polish. The sole and the back of the heel were pleasantly pink.

Peter told himself that this woman was no more beautiful than his classmates, but he did not believe it himself. Her maturity seemed both charming and frightening to him. Even in the most beautiful girls in the class there was something rough, a remnant of childhood. While here everything was somehow smooth, graceful, refined.

He wished he could find the courage to sit down at her table. Yes, but what could he say? He didn’t know how approach such women. She was at least fifteen years older than him! She would probably look at him disdainfully or laugh at him. How he wanted to get to know her and strike up a casual conversation! Then he would be able to look at her very closely. Even smell her perfume...

Some things puzzled him. He wondered why she was alone at the table, why her skin was so white in the middle of summer, and what those strange rods of shiny metal were, leaning on the chair opposite. He couldn’t find an answer to the first two questions, but the rods ... were probably mop handles. Wasn’t this woman a crazy housewife who spent all day cleaning the house, waiting for her husband to come home from work? Peter didn’t like that thought. After all the woman had an aristocratic air.

At that moment, she slipped her left foot into the elegant black leather slipper and stood up awkwardly, leaning on the crutches that she had pulled towards her with a quick movement. Yes, these were not mop handles, but elbow crutches.

Peter groaned, shocked. He had expected anything but the woman to have a physical defect. She had seemed so perfect to him just a moment ago!

She was limping away, concentrating entirely on her movement. Her black hair was blowing behind her in the gusts of wind.

Peter paid his bill at the bar and after a short hesitation, followed the woman. He wanted to look at her a little longer, from a safe, decent distance.