‘Well look,’ she told them softly in the birdsong-punctuated quiet of the spring afternoon, ‘we’re going to forget all that today. All your mi...deeds and misadventures and heartbreaks. This is our time.’ She spread both hands behind her and leaned back, bra-less tits thrusting at them through her gown’s muslin bodice. ‘On this perfect afternoon, right here with everything so warm and green and - fecund.’ She spoke it like a particularly delicious swear-word and though the boys were not actually. The notes were always a little flirty. She’d address it to the ‘cute one’, or “Stud”, or ‘The big Man of the House”, with a notation that she’d stopped over. I knew she was in-experienced because she always engaged me in some manner of conversations regarding sex. These conversations we had were usually very specific on her part. ‘Do all men like big boobs?’ Do all men like smooth, shaved legs? Do men mind if the woman is taller than he is? Do all men like to French kiss? Do men like shaved or. More

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