Wanna make it wit chu (mostly its the same)

I was killing time by the loading dock. Waiting for that bastard, the time clock, to let me off the hook. The days sweat had soaked my shirt and my tats glistened on my sleeveless arms in the unyielding sun. 

Across the parking lot, in the several business’s tucked away there, your white mini skirt hailed me from a wicked daydream like a brakes locked - screeching car. 

You strode with power and purpose. The heels never buckling even slightly under the long strides. You were all leg and the boxes you carried seemed to float out from your breasts.  Which were teasingly kept close to your chest but the sheer volume suggested a more perky and pointed handful.  

I cracked a smile at your plight. Dress down and your a prude, show too much and you’re a whore. You can’t win. Games rigged. But you knew this. All women not idiots do.

A necklace of some sort is sending me bright morse code. Something about...come dot- dot- dot- ravish me.

Distance too far to determine if bling is on the wedding finger. Like it matters anymore. These mysteries of life just ain’t my thing.

The only thing I knew for sure was what I wanted to do to you. And how good I would look doing it.

I suppose I should mention that I was also on the dock guiding a truck in. The driver inexperienced both in spoken english and the art of jacking an 18 wheeler into a tight 90. The latter being of immediate significance. So I probably should have noticed he was off course. Way off course. But that would have required caring.

The sound of impact startled your lovely melon which popped up and scanned my way. Blonde hair flinging out as you felt fear and forgot your composure, even if just briefly. I feel privileged somehow to have been apart of the sneaked intimacy. We shared a moment that you no doubt don’t ever let others see.

We are bonded. As tightly as my erection is too my jeans.

“What the fuck was that!!” The human voice intruding our cosmic encounter belongs to upper management. You can tell without looking because its squeaky and always in the form of a dumb question salted with anxiety. 

“That, was the sound of your future. Times up. I’m out.” Me heading towards exit.

“Now wait a minute N., this is...who the hell is that....”

Not your future.

N.