My bitch

Her fingers touched mine as she removed my empty, soup bowl. Her skin was soft, warm to the touch, almost hot. I looked up, but she had already turned and was heading to the kitchen.
That was the second time she had touched me. After appetizers, she had reached around my shoulder to slide away an empty plate. The knuckle of her thumb grazed my wrist.
"Excuse me," she whispered, her minty breath tickling my ear.
I flinched back to give her room. I couldn't tell if she had touched me purposely. Aloof as a cat, almost frigid towards me, she betrayed not the slightest sign of being flirtatious.
After the hostess had seated my three buddies—top executives in a booming internet company—and me, I was attracted to her from the moment she came to our table. "My name is Crystal," she announced in a dark sultry voice. A bulbous, gold stud twinkled on her tongue. "Cocktails, gentlemen?"
She treated my buddies with deference and formality, but towards me, she was short, casual, almost rude. “And you?” she asked.
Her large red lips were pressed together in a scowl giving her a haughty expression that made me feel like an insignificant worm. She scanned her tables while waiting for me to order.
“Martini,” I said, “Extra dry.“ Then I added: “You have pretty arms. Do you work out?”
The question was met with an icy stare through emerald green contact lenses. "What business is that of yours?" She turned and left.
Blood rushed to my head. I felt embarrassed by my clumsiness. "Pretty waiter,” I remarked to my buddies.

“Yeah,” they agreed.
“Tiny breasts though,” Mark said. “Too thin. You know . . . I like . . ." He held his hands about a foot away from his chest, then said, "Anyway, I think the company could turn a fucking huge profit with our cloud . . . “
"But she’s kind of a bitch," I added.