She was wearing a black choker round her neck. Her hands, withlong red nails, were on the arms of the chair - it was almost as if shewas siting on a throne.I tried to look downwards - my neck didn't want to move fully, but Icould see long nylon-clad legs and a short black skirt.Despite my confusion, I could feel myself getting excited.I was still woozy, and very, very thirsty. Maybe I said something, but avoice - in my head? in my ear? - said "Do you need a drink?" I nodded,sound seemingly unable to escape my cracked lips. "You'll need to suckthis - it's like a big straw."I gratefully put my mouth around the container offered, and sucked.Nothing came out. The girl seemed to move a little. I was looking down,at her legs. Her skirt seemed to be moving.I looked at her face again. Her head was turned to one side, and in hermouth was what appeared to be a cylinder, being held to her lips held bya black-clad, almost disembodied hand.I glanced down again. I can now see up the girl's skirt a. It was the trust thing really: she was happily living a lie.First thing on Tuesday morningI after dropping Zena at work, I got the rolls of film to the photographic shop, asking them for extra prints with the date on each print, and they were ready with them when I called on the evening journey home. Zena looked at them and sighed, but made no comment.As I sat in my car at my slot in the flats’ car park and looked over the pictures I was quite impressed with the quality. The closeups of their tongue play on the park bench were particularly clear, and it was obvious where their hands were and what they were doing.While I might have been congratulating myself on my prowess with the camera and its telephoto lens, the vivid sharpness of the images drove me deeper into depression, despondency and hopelessness.I looked forward to my rendezvous with Tom Paxton and Susan.On Wednesday evening over the meal with Susan I learned she was divorced, and owned and ran a hairdresser’s salon. I.
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