No Lunging

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CC Image courtesy of Leo Reynolds on Flickr

(Continued from Single On Ice)

It’s like a swimming pool sign before my eyes.  No lunging.  NO LUNGING.

VP gives me a steady look.  ‘So, what’s it to be?  Hampstead…’

Which he’s painted as a den of debauchery.

‘… or Sussex?’

Shorthand for prim, coy, demure, virginal – his basic nightmare.

I laugh.

‘This is when you have to make a decision.’

My arm is around his neck; his hands are God knows where.  Not in Sussex, that’s for sure.  I badly want to kiss him.  No, that’s not true.  I want him to kiss me, well.  I look down the street, seeking inspiration.


His hand comes up to caress my neck.

No lunging, no lunging.

I flap my arm – the one around his neck – in the air.

His kiss is… put it like this, it doesn’t make the dilemma in which I find myself any easier to resolve.  And so, to delay the moment when I will have to say goodbye either to my – feminists, avert your eyes – spotless moral character, or to VP, I lunge.

CC Image courtesy of pedrosimeos7 on Flickr

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