'7:43 PM. Residential street.'
Gareth walked.
He had broken off from his friends at the corner of Millet and Third, citing nothing in particular — just turning left while they went right, accepting their goodbyes with a nod, and walking.
He had been walking for eleven minutes.
He was not thinking about the garden.
He was absolutely, actively, deliberately not thinking about the garden.
He was thinking about the upcoming qualifier. About his defensive rotation. About the fact that he needed to call his mother because she had called him this morning and the call had ended strangely and he had been meaning to follow up all afternoon.
He was not thinking about thick thighs spread in the dark.
He was not thinking about the particular sound wet flesh makes at a certain pace.
He was not thinking about the way breasts with that kind of weight move under that kind of impact, the specific physics of them, the hypnotic rhythm—
He rubbed his forehead.
Hard.
"'Nope.'"
