1 comments/ 49273 views/ 11 favorites The Two Sisters By: AnonAndAnon "So what did you think of him, sister?" she asks as she takes a towel from a basket and begins to dry herself. Her fine blond hair drips and hangs about her bare shoulders. Her sister who still lies in her sleeping bag stretches. A breast is pulled out into view. Her darkish blond hair spills over the pillow. The sleeping bag is unzipped down the side, a bit of very white leg can be seen. "Oh, maybe a C-. He did try. Did you notice, sister, that he never even took his shoes off? I think that's so rude. Don't you? Is that how we were brought up?" "I don't think Mother's little talks covered that one, Mary." Mary laughs, then sighs, "Poor Mom, how she did suffer." After a moment she says, "I do think that next time you should bring back something a little younger." "Beggars can't be choosers." "I swear, he almost fell asleep on me. And sister, I don't thank you for telling him I'm the unadventurous one. I like to be on top as much as you. What do you suppose he's doing now?" "Just discovering that's he's missed his meeting by a considerable amount of time," as she speaks she wraps the towel around that wet streaming blond hair. "Don't you think we were kind of mean to him, sister? He isn't a bad man. He's never been unfaithful before." "He's never been tempted before," she bends, shifts about in a pile of discarded clothing, and fishes out a pair of panties, "And you know that he has been unfaithful in spirit for some time." "That's an exaggeration, sister." "You know it's true, Mary, you know it's true," she speaks intensely even as she steps into the panties and slides them up her slim legs. "He said he woke up early this morning because of all the time zone changes, flying here set him back 3 hours. In fact, he was surfing for pornography until 3 and then was so wound up he woke again at 5." "Mostly pictures of nudes, sister." "Mostly, and he justifies it by telling himself he doesn't pay for any of it, only looks at what's free or what someone else's pirated, if he gets lucky searching. He got lucky that way last night." "I don't think you exactly played fair with him, sister." "And did HE play fair with us?" the girl looks down at her sister Mary almost angrily. "Like it was fair what happened to us?" "He did pay for it, Em" "And that matters to us how?" There is a pause, then, "I do think walking was a commendable way of putting that extra time to use," Mary takes an apologetic mollifying tone, she pushes the sleeping bag down lazily so both her breasts look up at her sister. "Not many would, you know. People do far too little walking these days." "That's funny coming from you," she bends again, arranges her jeans and steps into them, one leg, then the other, then pulls the jeans up, wriggling a little as they are tight on her thighs. The jeans reach little more than half way over her bottom. How attractively slim she is! "And sister," Mary stretches her arms above her head so everything down to her navel is revealed, "He hasn't actually hurt anyone." "He hasn't been tempted there either. Who knows what he'd do if he were." "That's true." "Men can be very stupid when they're scared." "You know, sister, what bothers me most is not knowing HE was carrying on with you." "And I didn't know he was bouncing your bones either, sister." "Well, we both knew he was married." "Just engaged at the beginning, sister." "Did you ever think he was going to drop her?" There is another pause. Mary rolls on her side and picks at the sleeping bag's lining reflectively. Her sister picks up her bra. Bending, her breasts swing nicely. They aren't as big as Mary's whose tits show to good advantage now, one above the other, almost like lovers. "Did you fuck him again, sister?" Mary asks wistfully. "Yes, sister." "By the tree next to the south field?" "Yes, though sister, as I've told you, that field is a parking lot now." Mary frowns. "Yes, yes. It is so disagreeable." "It's nice that the river is clean enough for swimming again," she picks up her blouse and buttons it up. "I didn't much like going in when it was filthy." "Loaded with carcinogen's as I pointed out at the time, sister." "Not that we have to worry about those. It was the turds that bothered me," she ties the blouse's loose ends in front, her flat midriff seems so much more bare now than when she started. "You're going back to work?" "Yes sister," she slips her feet into her sandals and bends once more to tighten the velcro straps. "You don't have to, you know." "Well, we do like to eat, sister." "Yes, and we do like our treats. What will you do when the restaurant closes?" "Get a job with one of the companies up there in the office park, I guess," she unwraps her hair from the towel and begins brushing it. It is so blond it seems to catch all the available light and shine like pale gold. "Better you then me," the reclining girl yawns, "You don't feel bad about this one?" "No," her sister says shortly. "I guess I don't either," she rolls onto her front. Her back, shoulders, narrowing waist with the rise of her bottom just hidden by the sleeping bag look very entrancing. She crosses her arms above her head. Her skin is so white. Her eyes close lazily, "All that activity has tired me out and left me a little achy you know where." "You did give him a ride." "So did you, sister. Off with you, I want to get back to sleep." "See you later Mary." Her sister, now dressed, ducks under the low rock and out into the open early summer air. "Bye Em," the voice is slow low and sleepy, so muffled by the pillow and the plump arm that it can barely be heard. -------------------------------------------------------------- The man walks on the narrow bit of sidewalk over the bridge. He is tall and graying. He wears a dark gray suit, his shirt is blue, its collar open. His shoes are gleaming black wingtips. He has a large black laptop bag thrown over one shoulder. The last fifteen minutes have been the worst of the walk. The highway planners clearly never expected anyone to actually use the sidewalks they were forced by law to provide. He'd had to dart across an entrance ramp to the beltway, cross the bridge over the beltway, then dodge across another ramp, then walk along the narrow sidewalk on the bridge over the little river, cars whizzing quite close. Rush hour is now in full swing. It's so different from when he'd started out, 2 hours earlier, then it had been quiet with almost no cars. He looks over the railing. The river here is narrow, so narrow it can hardly be called a river, not wide and tidal as it'd been near his hotel. It's flowing here too, he can see white about the rocks where it comes out from under the bridge. He looks further over where he's been. He can see River St winding for some way. Houses line one side of the street, behind them is the tall cement sound barrier and then the roaring beltway. The brambly river edge boarders the other side of the street. On the opposite bank of the river stands a large Victorian era house, all on its lonesome, surrounded by an asphalt parking lot. The house has evidently been turned into a restaurant and bar. Between the house and the river is a large deck with tables and beyond the deck is a grassy stretch and then the mud of the river bank. A restaurant employee, a young blond woman, is hosing off the deck. The sun turns the spray from the nozzle into a cone of sparks. He looks ahead along the road. He still has a bit more nasty walking. He has to cross the four lane highway at a light at what looks to be a very busy intersection. If there's a walk light, it'll probably give him time to get marooned in the middle. Then he has to walk along what will probably be dubious sidewalks past a Ford dealership to River Rd. He glances at his watch. It is still really early. 8 AM. He figures he only has another mile at most to go. His meeting doesn't start until 10. Coming to the end of the bridge he steps over the low guard rail and the works his way down the steep grassy slope to the restaurant's parking lot. Toward the end he lets himself go and hits the asphalt running, his feet barely keeping up with gravity's acceleration. He feels exhilarated, like a kid. He skirts the house and the deck and crosses the grass and stands looking at the river. The noise of the water is barely audible over the roar of the highway. Rocks stick out here and there, one could almost make it across. He'd considered doing that fifteen minutes before. But the opposite bank is brambly and he'd been unsure of the rocks. He'd figured it safer to walk over and around and keep his feet dry. He could've taken his shoes off, he realizes now. It doesn't look very deep. Still, going around was probably wiser. Surprisingly he feels really good. A night with little sleep and then six miles of walking should have left him at least a bit tired. "Beautiful day," a voice behind him says. He turns and is stunned. The woman, the young woman, has turned off the hose and come up beside him. She's blond with clear, almost translucent skin. Her eyes are greenish. The low morning sun is behind him, full on her. She is slim and clean looking. And, she looks very much like one of the pair of women captured in a set of pictures he'd stumbled upon the night before in his hotel room. He remembers one shot of two young women on the steps of a white sided church, both wearing blue and white checked gingham dresses, white socks and flat laced leather shoes. The resemblance of one of them to this girl leaves him breathless. Her skin has just the same crystal cleanness and shown just as warmly in the sun. He longs to reach out and touch her bare arm. The faces are so similar. He remembers one of the close-ups in the set, showing just the bright green eyes, flecked with gray, the arching eyebrows, the perfect nose, the halo of blond hair. If he leaned forward so she was close enough to kiss, she would look just the same. He feels himself becoming lost in her eyes, in the half amused tilt of her lips as she watches him. He takes a breath and pulls his eyes away. He feels he has to say something so he says, "You don't mind if I stand here a minute?" "Me? No." After this momentous bit of conversation he is at a loss, helpless. He cannot in fact remember ever being this close to such a pretty girl. And some of the pictures in the set cause him to flush, the shot of her lookalike's beautiful cheeks bulging around the man's cock, her lovely face distorted and hungry, her fingers clutching the thick base. He'd been so tired when he'd looked at that shot, it'd affected him like a nightmare. And he cannot help imagining this girl down on him, how she would look, all he'd able to see would be her riot of blond hair, and how her warm mouth and tongue and lips and fingers would feel. The girl says, "I saw you walk along the other side." "Know where I started?" he asks, hoping to interest her and bring himself back into sanity at the same time. "No?" "Down in Lincoln Sq. I stayed at the Marriott there." "That's quite a ways." "Six miles." "You walked all that?" "Yeah, you see I flew in last night and jet lag's robbed me of 3 hours. For some reason I just couldn't sleep past 5. I have meetings at a company whose offices are maybe a mile up that way. I looked at a map and saw that the river pretty much goes from where I was to where I wanted to be and that there were streets running along it pretty much the whole way. I've only had to dodge away from the river twice." "It sounds nice." "Yup. Most of it. At the beginning the river was really wide and there were these abandoned warehouses along the road. I've often thought that it's as interesting looking at the things that people have built and made as natural things. You know? Why should a flower be nicer to look at than an old McDonald's cup? "Don't know, it just is." "But why? If you think about it, the cup is the result of someone's design and someone else's use. It should be more attractive than something that's just happened by chance and is mostly interested in suckering bugs." She laughs. "Sorry for running on so," he says, "I've been thinking about that as I walked along. Especially when I came to a particularly litter intensive stretch. Though it wasn't all I thought of, I'm giving this presentation this morning, I ran through that in my mind a good bit." "Loser," he thinks to himself. He feels hopelessly stupid, she is so pretty. He is intensely aware of her bare arms, the rise of her breasts, her bare midriff, he wants his hands on her waist. He has seen her, well seen someone as like as her clone almost, sit and kneel over her lover, a serious eager expectant expression on her face, take him and guide him so the tip of his cock slips against her fine downy pubic hair and start him on his way into her. "Why don't you sit down," she waves at the deck. The chairs are upside down on the tables. "You must be tired." "Not as much as I'd expected," he takes a chair and sets it on the deck. He hesitates, looking at her. "Sure," she says. She takes out a cigarette and lights it. She sits beside him and stretches her long jeaned legs. The sun shines on her sandaled feet, he sees that they glisten a bit, wet from the hose. She sees his look of surprise at the cigarette and laughs. "Tell me," she says, "Do you know any old people? Are you friends with any old people?" "Outside of my mother?" He feels absurdly glad that she doesn't count him as old. "Like you have or want a chance," he thinks to himself. He figures he must be 20 years her senior. "Outside of your mother." "No." "Neither do I, if you met yourself as an old person do you think you'd be friends?" "Probably not." "Chances are you couldn't stand yourself. You'd have completely different interests, a completely different outlook. You'd think, here's another old person I can't be bothered with, screw him. You'd get stuck behind yourself on the road and the stupid slow careful way you drive would drive you crazy. You'd blow your horn and whip around yourself. I figure any old lady who has lung cancer because I smoke now is a stranger to me. I shouldn't do as I like now because of a stranger?" He tries to collect his thoughts. She misinterpreted his look when she lit the cigarette. He's never seen anyone smoke as she does. She smokes like women must've smoked long ago, with pleasure, with a knowledge that she looks good doing it, and regardless of her words, with no consciousness of ill. One of the shots showed her lookalike stretched on her side on a patch of grass, so naked, the man, large and burly in comparison to her slimness, sits beside her, his chest bare, his pants on, but unbuttoned, he is handing her a lit cigarette which they are sharing. Beyond them is a creek, it's water flashing in the sun, showing reflections of the wild roses on its further bank. He thinks, "I must be going." She is so pretty though and he is so stirred. He thinks that there can be no harm in relaxing. Again, what chance does he have with such a creature? "I bet you're thirsty," she says. "I have water here," he reaches for his bag. "How about a beer?" "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble." "Oh, I always have one after I finish setting up the deck. I figure it's a perk. It's not like I get paid much. I'll be back in a second." The set he'd found and now can't get out of his head was entitled "The Two Sisters". He'd been lieing on the hotel bed. His laptop open beside him. His head hurt from lack of sleep and the lateness of the hour, he'd felt a feverish sense that he was being stupid and that he should turn out the light. The meetings he has to go to, the presentation he has to give, made him feel guilty and desperate. He will hardly be at his best! He would've gotten to sleep early but he'd gotten a call from his wife. He heard her voice and he heard the shouting and his heart'd sunk. He couldn't even figure out what they were all fighting about, his wife, his son and his daughter. How often does he get out of his car in the garage, walk up the steps to the kitchen and hear that shouting and want to just turn around and vanish! At least at work, though people aren't more rational, they do follow minimum standards of decorum, he can pretend the fights aren't there. At home, it's gouge the eyes, hit below the belt, especially after proclaiming a truce. Somehow the fight died down, he heard someone stomping off in a rage. His wife then complained about how much he traveled, she complained about how uninvolved he is, she complained about his son's teacher, complained about her boss. She complained about the rain. Then she said good night and hung up. He'd reopened his laptop and started surfing through images of young beauty. It was undemanding and it swallowed his mind. There was always the chance of getting lucky and finding something special, something satisfying, something he could look at again and again, something that would let him imagine the possibility of a perfect life at least for someone. He'd told himself, just one more search. When that didn't turn up anything, he told himself, just one more search. At some point, in the results, the set's link caught his eye, the fourth down. It's url started with a sequence of digits, not some dreamlike name. He'd clicked it and there was an index of hundreds of thumbnails, cascading and reshuffling on the page as they came crowding up. It was the first of 5 such pages, there were little blue linked numbers at the top of the page, above the thumbnails. He'd clicked on the first thumbnail and there stood the two sisters, in the sun, on the church steps, the resolution so high he felt he could reach through the screen and touch them. They almost looked like if they turned they would see him. He'd stared at the shot for some time, relishing how beautiful the two young women were. The sister, the other girl, is a little shorter, a little rounder, and her breasts, discreet and subdued under her cotton dress, are larger. Her hair is a darker shade of blond, if the sun wasn't on it it might've been brown. Her eyes are brown too, and don't show the same spirit. Behind them coming down the church steps is a couple, a large square forbidding young man and a decidedly plain looking maybe older young woman, overdressed to compensate for her lack of bloom. "Here you go," a beer is set on the table, the bottle has a harpoon on its label, "I'm Emily," she says, extending a hand. He shakes it. Hers is dry and soft. He wishes he could hang onto it. "Sam," he says, "Sam Welton. And thanks." "So what do you remember best from your hike?" He thinks a minute, grateful to her for giving him something to talk about, then says, "Lots of things. There was the sun just rising behind the buildings of the city when I got to the river. It's really wide down there. You could still just look at it, the sun, in longish glances. It cast a wide path on the water. "A little further along it was really trashy. There were warehouses, mostly abandoned I think. There was this tire in the dirt by the street. Growing up through it was some kind of a lily, it's flower had just the prettiest orange petals. "Then after the warehouses the street went between a cemetery and the river. The cemetery was more like a garden, flowering trees and bushes. The song birds were raising a fuss in the leaves. I saw a muskrat, ducks and geese. And several dead fish. I saw a heron stalking along the bank and saw it stab a frog. There were so many lilacs along the cemetery fence that the air was filled with their scent, I'd forgotten that air could actually smell good. "I thought about how you have to be dead before you can stay in such surroundings." The Two Sisters In the set, her counterpart is never naked, always shown with her dress pulled up above her waist and/or pulled down from her breasts. Here she is oh so definitely naked, white as the whitest paint. He feels himself stir again. How long has it been since he's come even twice in such quick succession? These days his normal rate is once a month. "Here, have a sip," she lifts the bottle. He takes it and tips it and takes an eager gulp, perhaps it will clear his head as if it were fresh air. It's exciting to think that her lips were just on it. "I could fuck them both," he thinks with amazement. "Here sit, you must be tired. I myself was never much of a walker, the quarter mile up the road to church was my limit, and now!" she laughs and shakes her head. "Sit! I won't bite." She pats the sleeping bag. The air mattress makes a hollow sound. He hesitates, some lingering spark in his brain tells him to get going, but her sister is out there, and he'd have to walk passed her and he feels a reluctance. From this part of the cave he cannot see Emily but he is acutely conscious of her out there in the morning sun. There's a splash outside the cave. "Emily loves to swim," Mary says. She has the little superior smile of a fond older sister when talking of her little sister's activities. He does sit, just below the ridge her legs, covered below the knee, make in the sleeping bag. He stares at those knees and her thighs, now so close. "Won't she be late for work?" he asks, if Emily goes, it will be easy for him to be on his way too. "Oh no, she doesn't really start until 10. She just likes doing some things early. She says the world feels clean. They don't care as long as things get done. She's an assistant manager," she says proudly, "She started as a waitress." "Now Sam," she says, "Where are you from?" He tells her and she sighs, "So far!" "Your sister says you had an accident?" he asks awkwardly. She waves her hand dismissively, "My sister and I both actually, we made a mistake and paid the consequences. I seem to be affected more." "Now Sam," she goes on, "Do you have a family? You see, I like to know something about my Emily's men." He feels a little spark of excitement at being included in that set. He imagines Emily swimming, the sun on her and glinting and fracturing on the surface of the water about her. He says "No, no children," in a low voice. He feels briefly like shit, but then the feeling vanishes. Those children are just a complication here. They hardly exist. He's inventing himself a better cleaner existence. "A wife though," she says. "Yes," he admits. "And not separated." "No." "But distant. Even when she's close?" He nods. "That's alright," she says lightly, then with a little laugh, "We're used to that." It's a strange thing to say. He looks at her face. "Never mind," she says, "It was just a little private joke. Since you're from so far away, it hardly matters." He almost says that he comes here often enough for business but does not. It must be a dream he thinks and even if it isn't, tomorrow he will certainly remember it as a such. His hand is on her thigh, moving lightly up and down her flank. She is the sort of girl who calls out for caressing. With this sister he feels at ease. With Emily, he is on edge, worried about his performance, worried about being amusing, worried about his age. Mary is accepting, uncritical. Mary takes his hand, hers is soft and round and delicate. She pulls him to her, puts a hand to his cheek and guides his face to hers, he does all the traveling. She doesn't have the hunger her sister has. It's like she likes it, but it's really for him that she's doing it. He thinks, "Why not." "That's nice," she says, "You're nice." He feels tired now. His walk and conversation with Emily and his exertions suddenly take their toll. She sees his eyes droop. "I like that!" she says with a laugh, "It's rude to fall asleep in company!" He sees those fine breasts puddling on her chest, shaking when she moves, and he feels no desire to fondle them. He doesn't even want to be doing what he's doing. He kisses her as in a dream. She squirms under him, pushes his pants back down to his knees. He feels her fingers on his sex. He is surprised to feel that it is hard. She gets him started and he presses in, gravity doing most of the work. "She is so comfortable," he thinks. His face is buried in her hair, his chest flat on hers, it is like sex in a dream. It's been a long time since he's woken up from such a dream, semen on his pajamas needing to be cleaned up. He feels he could wake up now with just a little effort. There seems to be no effort in him anywhere. She shifts under him, making an amused complaining sound. He moves lazily in and out, just once, then rests in her, on her, again. He would be content if that moment complete with his distant half conscious arousal could stretch out forever. Unbidden he remembers the last of that set of pictures. He'd clicked and stared and felt sick. The very last shows the broad young man standing on a scaffold, a couple of suited guys standing by. There are numerous guards. The gallows is in a gray institutional courtyard, no green anywhere. The young man is weeping. To stop the memories he starts working harder, pulling in and out with some vigor. The woman under him makes a soft satisfied sound. On the row above there is one of Mary waiting by the large spreading tree. The corn field green behind her. She has a hand absently on the stomach of her demure brown dress. The next shows her greeting her lover. There is her look of horror when she sees the knife. He slams in and out of the woman as hard as he can. "It must be a nightmare", he thinks, "I will wake soon." He feels Mary tense and shudder under him. There is no release for him. He cannot stop the remembrance. Why did he look at the blasted things? He had been in a strange numb state, unable to believe that such a fine set with such lovely images could end in such way! There's one of Emily emerging from the corn. Stepping out from the green rows into the sun. There's the one of Emily arriving. Her ghastly look of amazement at her sister's bloody body, the amazement looks strangely like the expressions of pleasure she wears in many of the earlier shots. She sees the man, his clothes bloody, his knife bloody. He sees Mary's eyes looking up at him from so close. He realizes that the horror of the pictures excited him then and excites him now. He feels sick. He keeps working. Longing for a climax that he knows won't come. Mary shudders under him again. She makes a low whimper of pleasure. There's the one of the man standing by both bodies, his shirt is ripped, there's a bloody scratch on his face, he is bending as if he's been kicked and kneed. Mary's hands are under his shirt, her fingernails rake his back. He keeps working, desperate for release. He tries to think of something, anything else but cannot. There is the one of the man dragging Emily's body into the cave. A pick and a shovel are thrown on the ground at the entrance. There is the one of the man naked in the river. Washing himself. His clothes spread on the bank to dry. The image would be almost bucolic if it weren't the preceding and his blackening eye. There is one of men and dogs. The dogs straining at the entrance of the cave. Again if he'd chanced on it first, he'd've thought it was a nice hunting scene, maybe there's a bear in the cave, he'd've closed it and surfed off elsewhere. There is the one of the man on his knees beside the plainer older woman, the one shown way back at the beginning, standing prim beside the man on the church steps. Here she is standing looking down at him with a look of anger, disgust and bitter jealousy. Two policemen are at the door. Mary bucks under him, shudders convulsively and utters a suppressed cry. Her head is turned to the side and her eyes are closed, her breathing through parted lips gradually becomes easy. Tentatively he stops moving. He feels his need but is exhausted. He struggles out of the cave. It is so bright out. His eyes hurt as they adjust, the greens and the blues and the whites are supersaturated. The ground feels unsteady. Emily lies lazily in the water near the far bank where it's shallow, on a broad ledge of rock. Her blond hair flows away from her head. She is looking at the sky. The stream laps over her legs, but her chest is out, wet and gleaming in the air. Her arms are under her head, water white about them. "Come in and get cleaned up," she calls. He turns and stumbles along the path. He hears her laugh and he hears splashing behind him. He comes to the embankment. Just before it is a large tree, from its halo of white fragrant blossoms he knows it's an apple. Once it must've stood by itself. Now it is hemmed and crowded by a junky growth of brambles and low maples. Emily stands just before it. How she got ahead of him he doesn't know. Her skin is wet, in the patch of sun she looks like she's wrapped in cellophane. Wet, her hair hangs obediently about her shoulders. "Sit for a minute and catch your breath, you look quite wild." "I have to go." "You've time." He looks at his watch and is astonished to see that she's right. It's only just 9. He really should go. If the building he's going to doesn't have a shower! He sags with exhaustion. She takes his hand, hers is cool, wet and clean. His is dirty and hot. She steps through the brambles, they claw at his clothes, but seem to miss her. In the cool shade, the aroma of apple blossoms all around, he sinks onto the leafy moss. His back to the trunk. She sits on his lap, leaning against him. "When I was a little girl," she says, "I used to come here. It was a farm then. I would climb up into this old tree and lie on a branch, my feet bare, and eat apples until I got sick and threw up. Those were real apples, not like the ones you get in the supermarket, they had this crisp sun bright sour taste. They were hot from the sun, it'd be August. They had little chunks bit out by birds, either for the fruit or for the worms I don't know. You had to watch out. The apples did have worms. I'd tell Mary it was the ones in which you didn't actually find a worm that you needed to worry about, 'cause you'd probably just eaten it. I'd throw apples at her and she'd throw them at me. Our mother would yell at us when we got home, our clothes a mess. I hit Mary a lot more than she hit me," she says with satisfaction. He is half asleep. Her hand undoing his zipper and slipping through his underpants doesn't really rouse him. He's aroused down there none the less. She works onto him. Tighter for having been in the cool river. She puts her hands on her shoulders and begins pulling herself up and down. His eyes open and close. When open he admires how her breasts bounce and jiggle, how her shoulders and the muscles in her arms work, how her face sometimes looks up, sometimes looks down, sometimes leans to his so their lips can brush. He admires the way the sun slowly drys her hair and it too begins to bob and float about her shoulders. When his eyes are closed he thinks he's in heaven. She twists on him when her pleasure hits, clamps about his cock, and she buries her face in his shirt so her cries won't carry up the embankment, over the guard rail and onto the parking lot. After a moment she feels down between her legs, feels where he enters her and finds he's still hard. She chuckles with satisfaction and slowly starts up again. When he comes it is sudden and catches him unawares. He tenses. The act hurts. "Over strained plumbing" he thinks, then his eyes close. He opens them with a jerk, it seems only an instant has passed. She is sitting beside him, her back against the trunk, her side leaning against him, peacefully smoking a cigarette, watching bees in the flowers above them. You can't hear their buzz because of the highway sounds which swell about about them. With a knot of fear, he looks at his watch. It reads 9:30. He sags with relief and jumps up. He slings his laptop bag over his shoulder and looks down at her. She is dry and relaxed and so naked. She looks up at him with an expression he can't read. What can he say? He doesn't believe that it has happened. He says goodbye. He knows she won't meet him that afternoon. He clambers up the rocks, careful of the thorns and steps over the rail. He sees that the office building across the lot isn't the one he wants, he'll have to look further. In front of the building stands a small group of smokers, talking in the sun. They are intent on each other and don't notice him. He turns and looks back. He sees her running away along the path. She is light and fast. From the parking lot the path can't even be seen, it all looks like weeds and bracken. He sees just a last hint of white and then hears a muffled splash as she dives into the water. He turns and heads across the asphalt for the road. -------------------------------------------------------------- Five years after that morning she works as a receptionist for the mortgage company that occupies the first floor of that building. It is a beautiful day. She stands on the front sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and talking office politics with a couple other smokers. Two Canadian geese and 3 little goslings peck and clip at the grass near by. The day before there'd been 4 little goslings which has caused some expressions of concern and sympathy. On the far side of the parking lot a man clambers up the rocks and onto the asphalt. The others don't notice this strange behavior, their backs are to the parking lot. She does. She's been waiting for it. She watches without expression as the man turns and looks back into the woods. She watches as he hurries passed the office building and turns onto River Rd. An hour or so later she is out again. "The poor little thing," her companion says, "I wonder what happened to it." "A fox or a cat," she says. "It's so horrible. It was so cute yesterday." "It's parents and siblings don't seems so concerned," she says, drawing on her cigarette. Indeed, the geese are hungrily clipping away as if no tragedy has taken place. "You're right, heartless, nasty things." Then she says, "Now isn't that odd." A hot disheveled man half runs half stumbles along the edge of the parking lot. They watch as he gets to the far end, clambers over the guard rail and vanishes, possibly tumbling from sight. "Where's he going, you suppose?" her friend asks. She shrugs and draws on her cigarette "There's nothing back there but brambles and shit," her friend continues. "Oh I don't know," she says, "It's kind'a pretty along the river." Her friend looks at her like she's lost her mind. "There's a river back there?" She nods. They start talking about a salesman who's been hitting on her friend. Her friend says, "You know, I don't really like him and I am seeing a lot of Joe. I told him he should give you a shot." "Thanks." "Do you good. You never get out. Or you never talk about it anyhow." She smiles, "Well, maybe I'll let him try." Her friend says, "Will you look at that!" A police car drives into the parking lot and comes toward them, its lights flashing. The patrolman in the passenger seat rolls down his window. Without waiting for a question her companion points to where the white of the apple tree can be seen beyond the asphalt. Where the man'd disappeared a moment ago. The patrol car accelerates along the parked cars and stops at the end. The two patrolmen get out and vanish over the edge into the trees. Shortly they reappear with the man walking docilely between them. The man gets in back, the two patrolmen in front. As the car glides down the driveway, the man sitting in back sees her. He begins shouting and waving and pounding on the glass, though the two young women can hear nothing. "Wonder what that was all about," says her friend, "We've something to talk about at lunch now for sure. Wish I'd said 'He went that'a way.'"