BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

This was another time. She was sitting on the window seat, letting the sunlight warm her body through the navy blue sweater she wore. The book was in her hands, it was a little heavy for her, and I came over so that I could look over her shoulder and see which chapter she was reading. She was already about three-quarters through and was struggling with the poetry which was far too allusive for her. Annoyingly allusive, I say, because you know, don't you, that some writers try to impress us with their erudition. Childish and reflective of an undeveloped ego, I would say.

Anyway, she was sitting primly, her legs crossed, her red hair glinting in the sunlight, and I couldn't resist touching the back of her collar with my fingers which she felt, and when she looked up at me I stretched my finger into her collar, along her neck, just under her hairline. Her eyes widened for a flash, then, she waited, still prudent, unwilling to acknowledge my indiscretion nor to encourage me to continue.