I can see him, clearly, a silhouette against the bedroom windows. And he's watching, watching with binoculars, as we set off towards the river.
It's been two hours since the sun dipped below the horizon but the sky is still bright and warm, and glowing with eerie blue clouds. There's a buzz in the air and the flutter of bat wings over our heads as Charlotte and I leave the safety of our shared garden space and head out down a leafy path towards the bridge, which is still unlit, still dark and forbidding.
Our destination? We have no specific place to go but we have both a path to follow as well as the peace and the freedom to explore where we want, subject of course, to the fickle nature of the winds and the intrusive gaze of so many electric eyes.
Except for a pair of training shoes, we are both naked. Naked and very slightly afraid. This is a dare gone mad, an imagined scene made real. It's my addiction. To run bare and unashamed across the land.
Our hearts are pounding as tiny beads of sweat form atop my upper lip and a shiver runs down my spine.
My skin feels electric and senses every breeze, every passing insect, every subtle nuance that this night has to offer. The hairs on my arms, on my neck, down the small of my back tingle with anticipation.
Ahead of me, my friend walks at a pace which suggests that she is not entirely at ease with our surroundings but is determined to continue onwards. We are on a mission.
From my vantage point, a few meters behind, I smile as her bottom moves in time with our footsteps. It is a happy bottom. A smiling bottom. A shapely bottom atop a pair of slender, well-formed thighs and strong, muscular calves. I would, if opportunity might permit such a passing moment, prefer to enjoy some quiet time inserted between those thighs, my head resting upon her belly.
We reach the edge of the nearest housing estate and hover at the border, watching those with less time and more common sense come and go, this way and that way, oblivious (so it would seem) or our presence. When the path is clear, we press on. Fortune favours the brave, does it not?
However, I am very mindful of our surroundings. I scouted this route some days before, noting those houses with cameras and where our path might be impeded by nettles or streetlights. I am fairly sure we are safe but then safety was never our main consideration. We are here because it is risky. It is dangerous. We might be seen (or worse) at any moment. But we do this all the same because we... have to do this. It is a compulsion of sorts. Why? I do not know and probably never will.
We move as one, mostly side by side, occasionally in single file where the terrain makes it difficult.
I glance sideways whenever possible, at my smiling, nervous friend and her breasts, which are firm and perky, and bounce and sway with every step. They are happy breasts. Cheeky breasts. If a breast could be described as enthusiastic then, yeah, they are enthusiastic breasts. They're enjoying this adventure as much as I, perhaps more.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the most significant obstacle in our path, a single track road that is well lit and impossible to avoid. Worse, our path on the other side runs parallel to the road for some fifty meters, maybe more, maybe less, but in the time it will take us to walk the distance we will be exposed to any passing motorist who happens upon us. It is a risk we are willing to take although neither of us walk at anything like a relaxed pace. No, instead we cross the still-warm asphalt hand in hand and then leg it, as fast as we can, each grabbing our swinging boobs so that we might dampen their painful oscillations. It is times like this that I miss my Sports Bra.
