He's on a motorbike in a suit on George Street. You glance once, then head up, blinkers on, you know as well as he does that a helmet covers the eyes. Eyes are the most important feature of a man to you.
Then he's pulling up on Clarence Street, coffee in hand you keep your head up and the blinkers on, the swagger is adapted.
"Hey girlie, what are you drinking?"
You're still on the defensive from the last suit you dated, whose hands were softer than your new silk blouse. You remember thinking that he must have left his masculinity in the sandpit with his Tonka Truck, hadn't he done a day of hard work in his life?
"Double shot flat white. What are you riding?"
You know the answer is going to mean nothing to you. He knows this as well, because if you really knew bikes, you wouldn't have to ask.
"Why don't you leave the machinery to me and we'll make it a triple?"
What's the worst that can happen? You're in Syncity CBD at 7.30 am, and you're early anyway.
You keep your guard up and take your blinkers off, thank yourself for blow drying and straightening your mane for the first time in weeks and set off back into suit world.
After all, even an independent girl from the big smoke needs a knight in shining armour.