Fancy that.
Seeing her. She was bending over I think to remove a stone or some uninvited visitor to her shoe. It wasn't her face that I recognised first but the shape of her bottom in the often worn leather pants.
It was cultured, clean and like a perfect peach. Firm crescendos of deep clenching flesh that flowed in stiff currents of female splendor. The memories of our past life slashed forth like a razor to the wrist. A torment of lust and love gone wrong over silly misunderstandings and to much bad wine. I had felt truly sick then as she arose, her head turning slowly in my direction, cautious like a hunted fox, seeming to sense my presence. Our eyes connected. I felt hurt seeping out of me in her direction. A lump in my throat and a churning acid stomach. She looked sad and showed no surprise at seeing me. Did I walk towards her or turn and walk away....