It wasn’t until the first really
warm day in spring. The cheerful music
of the jazz club floated into the warm scented air. Keith came around from The Lord Grey and they had a latte
each before Esmé locked the front door and they moved into the back
courtyard. They sat side by side on the
bench, listening to the jazz, to the muted roar of the city and the cheerful
ping of the trams as they rumbled past along Brunswick Street. At last Keith stood up and reached out his
hand to her and they started to dance. A
very competent rendition of Benny Goodman’s I let a Song Go Out of My Heart filled the air. They danced close, their torsos stroking
against each other, their thighs brushing.
She could feel his erection. He
was wearing boxers. She could always
tell.
When they kissed, at first it was tentative
and wary. Then it deepened and they
stopped dancing and simply held each other.
He pulled his head back, his
breathing ragged, and asked, his eyes warm with concern and affection, “Ya okay
with this?”
For answer, she squeezed him closer
into her arms. “Yes,” she said, her
voice muffled, her head against his chest.
