High Tide

It's a beautiful day, birds are doing their thing, people living their lives as they tend to do, and there you are... Can you see yourself? You're with someone.

You can feel the chemistry there, and you don't know how long you can last without physically reaching out and indulging yourself. Although, within the space of a minute, it seems like your desperate need has managed to convect itself across the distance between the two of you. Without undue haste, you begin to stroll towards the nook you've been eyeing for a while, and settle down, still in the middle of innocuous conversation. It's slightly cramped; it is a nook, after all, so you have to snuggle together in order that nobody's uncomfortable. Your arms need more space than you have to offer, so you throw them around each other's waists, and the other hands, you clasp in your lap. Slowly, you notice that the alien arm around your waist has found an interesting resting place in the shelter of your arm, and the fingers are taking their evening walk on your rib-cage. The hand on your lap is enjoying itself, reveling in the niche it seems to have discovered. The fingers at your rib-cage drop suddenly, making you irresistibly tempted to protest; till you notice that the arm has shifted, and is mirroring your arm and its movements on your playmate's back, under cover of t-shirt. You make an excuse of ruffling hair to caress the face so close to your own, so tempted to kiss it, but seriously distracted by the feeling of those fingers sliding higher up your back to where they'd been before, only without the protective clothing layer between skin and skin. And those other fingers, they're not even bothering to move; the hand seems to have achieved some sort of nirvana, the warmth of the hand adding to the warmth you can feel under the jeans layer. Meanwhile, your hands are busy as well. This is an attractive back; smooth, slightly downy. And the other hand is in heaven; playing at the waistband of slightly loose jeans, feeling the heat that's being generated there. Footsteps approach, and suddenly, both sets of limbs shiver in the cool air as someone passes by, tossing you a curious look. You follow the passer-by out of sight, while those hands are at it again, sliding up your leg, fingers taking their time feather-dusting your leg. More people pass by, looking at you, but they can't see what you're feeling. They wouldn't be as okay with your perching where you were if they knew what was going on in the pit of your stomach. You want to return the favour, but you're too caught up in this feeling.

A phone rings. It's time to leave.

You stand up, collect your bags, and walk out.

Nobody but you can see the reason your face looks like you've spent the last few hours in a bar. But you know, and you can still feel the touch on your skin, and you want; you want like crazy. Not that that makes any difference right now, you chastely sit in the bus and head homewards, waves of painful desire hitting you in the gut.