Keith watched her pass: the soft shake of her dress. Employing the darting finger, he made an up-and-under feint at her white-flounced rump. The friction of underthings: quite noisy, that dress. Like the bird inside it. Keith sucked hard on a section of his upper lip. He considered himself to be thoroughly at ease, and nicely holding up his end of the sexual lecture or exchange of foretalk. He thought of the ecstasy aunts in the magazines, and of their certain approval. Breaking new grounds in frankness. An adult exchange of views innit. Mutual pleasure. We all have our needs. But both his legs were dead they were that tightly crossed. And his palms felt siltily viscid. Jesus, hang around here all night. This rate the Cavalier’ll get a ticket. Or clamped. Fucking bastards…

‘Like so much else, Keith, it’s all to do with time. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-nine.’ Said boldly, as if his age were one of his less arguable virtues or qualifications.

‘A child. A baby. You’re reaching the age when, according to literature, you’ll soon be putting all that behind you. You won’t of course. Ever. They won’t stop you stopping it, will they, Keith. Oh no. I look at you, and I see a man’, she said, her face flooding with roguish admiration, ‘who’d be proud to die with his Johnson in his hand.’