Would you rather your inspiration came from her smile or in the bottom of a glass?
The class, her sass, her assets made you pay attention.
I failed to mention ulterior motives.
Votive offered in exchange for the promise of a more private locale.
The glass gathers condensation as she robs you of your concentration taking your blush for compensation.
You reach for your glass in desperation and clear it in one fell swoop.
You set it down and find yourself alone.
You search your memory for clarification and find out she was a figment. One of your imagination.