It was nearly obnoxiously sweet. I heard a second deeper moan. Looking between the flowers I could make out flashes of light from her side of the hedge. I wondered absently if the bug I had caught was among those flashing. I took hold of my cock as I listened to her moaning. Soon those sounds would be coming quicker and quicker together. Low moans, soft gasps of pleasure. Clockwork. I wondered what event in life has her locked into this pattern of Saturday night self-pleasure. My mind had played through different scenarios, but I was sure none were right. So many years had passed since the last frantic days of high school. That mad scramble to get yearbooks signed by people you would never see again. I knew without looking that her name wasn’t in mine. I didn’t have the courage to ask her to sign it back then. I slipped my hand quietly up and down my cock listening to her. The shaft was hard and the skin slid silky through my fingers. The idea of how silky her skin must feel passed. But no one comes. Instead, she walks back to her bench. There's something slightly sexier about the way she walks now. Her hips are rolling, her ass waving from side to side. She sits, and picks up her book again. She gives him a long penetratingly direct look over top of it. He gazes back at her, trying to decipher her mood. Finally, she breaks eye contact and returns her attention to the book. He checks his watch once more. Still another eighteen minutes to arrival. Time seems to be moving impossibly slowly. This Radiohead song isn't helping. He scans again through the playlists on his phone, and finally settles on Black Rebel Motorcylcle Club - loud, dirty, hazy, rock and roll. This is music he feels he can really get into right now. He hazards a glance across the tracks again. Her hand has gone to her neck this time. Her golden hair is pulled back from her collarbone. It's an elegant neckline, he decides. She's wearing dangling silver earrings, not the obnoxiously large kind,.
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