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With a soothing voice he started telling me that he had met Sasha online a couple of weeks ago, that they had sent each other messages almost daily, that she had described her person, her lifestyle and her clothes in a way that made me realize why he thought I was her. ‘I’m so, so sorry! I should have asked you if you were Sasha,’ he said with his mouth pressed to my hair ‘then we wouldn’t be in this mess! I’m sorry I pushed myself on you, that I scared you and that I made you cry! It was supposed to be a game between me and a woman who was quite determined to be seduced in an elevator…’ His words stopped pouring out of him and I could almost hear the thoughts whirling in his mind. Even if the joke was supposed to be on me, he’d also been tricked and lied to. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him, my voice low and troubled ‘I think someone at work must have done this to the both of us. I just don’t know why anyone would go to this much trouble to either have a laugh at my expense or to hurt. Then I opened a couple of buttons on the neck of my light summer dress, pulled it all over my head, and there in full nudity I stretched myself out on my belly. He tried to make some friendly conversation with me and his penis was dangling lazily from the wiry crowd of his pubic patch. I was very aware that some of my newly exposed skin must attract his eyes due to its blinding paleness from last winter. The fiery midday sun burned down onto the white cheeks of my bottom - a feeling I usually enjoyed very much. Pretending to nap a bit I watched him frequently from underneath the protective cur-tain of my long hair. And several times I saw his penis stiffen when he was putting his curious dark brown eyes on me. I didn't want to get the suntan lotion out of my bag because I feared he might ask to give me a hand with it. But as my bum got redder and hotter and I still wasn't feeling free enough about turning onto my back he was just rubbing some of the same stuff onto his already.
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”“Tell me – how did you find your way here? It’s not the easiest approach in good visibility.”I told the story, expecting incredulity, but she just nodded. “Sometimes I wake in the night, you know, and hear the sound of a Gypsy Major engine overhead. I often think of him; I’m sure he was looking after his grandson.”True to her predictions the mist lingered, and in the evening she served up a savoury lamb casserole, with new potatoes and runner beans grown in her own vegetable patch. She asked me about, myself and my family, and later as we drank beer from a nearby micro-brewery, she began to open up about Grandad and their relationship. She had a far-away expression and I wonder how aware she was of my presence, really.“He was rather like you,” she began, “serious, with little interest in anything other than aircraft. As you’ll guess, he looked like you, too.” She disappeared at one point, only to reappear with her old log-book and an album of photos. Only a few of them, in the middle.

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