Attention to Detail Disorder

It’s an annoying habit. Probably. It doesn’t bug me so much, but it can really cheese off your friends.
Your female friends.
I’m an observer. Not a casual observer.
I look around, in most normal situations. Even if I’m talking to you, right to your face, I’ll break contact to look around.
OK, that’s probably really annoying.
But add a situation where there’s a lot of women walking around, and I’m just fucking lost.
And I can’t help it.
“Having a little trouble concentrating there?”
Ahhhhh.
I was trying to listen to the conversation. I really was.
But the pub was filled with women who took full advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to break out all their cute tops. Spaghetti-strapped shirts. Low-cut blouses. Tank tops.
One woman had on what I can only describe as a tube top, black, that showed off her shoulders (I am a sucker for shoulders).
And no bra.
I am not dead. I looked.
“Busted.”
“Man, it’s like having two sisters sitting at the table with you. Sucks to be you!”
Embarrassed, I vowed to concentrate on the conversation. And the woman in the tube top, black, that showed off her shoulders (did I mention that she was tall and had dark hair?) stood at the top of the stairs – in my direct line of site – to make a mobile call. She leaned on the wall and swept one of her long legs in front of the other.
“OK, I can’t help it. Not when they do stuff like that. I gotta look.”
“Do you need to sit over here? There are only guys out this way.”
“You can have one look. Soak it all in. Go ahead.”
Christ, it was just like having your sisters at the table.
Boots went so far as to draw the woman on a bar napkin. The Queen gave her a telephone number to give me. We all gave her name. Nikki.
“With two Ks.”
“And an I.”
I got the napkin, as a souvenir from the evening. It’s on my bulletin board. A reminder.
That I have an annoying habit.
I suffer from Attention to Detail Disorder.
So help me God.

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