It was getting to the end of one of those, long, miserable winter days. All day the storm clouds had been building up; black, threatening monsters heavy with rain. Although it was bitterly cold outside, the temperature inside the office that I shared with Angela was warm, even slightly too so. I watched absently out the windows as the first of the thick, heavy raindrops began to splat onto the pavement outside.
I noticed Angela's movement in the reflection of the glass. The harsh, fluorescent globes of the office and the darkening light outside meant the reflection was good – I admired the view of her breasts snugly tucked under a plain white singlet as she leant to collect her bag, the small, round nub of her nipples not quiet concealed under the thin cotton.
I turned back to my desk. It was time to call it a day. All the students had left an hour ago, and the halls and classrooms were mostly deserted in the frigid evening air. I sighed.
"Well, I guess that's it then. Another day at the office, another week done." Angela said, smiling as always as she shrugged into the light cardigan she always wore outside the student free sanctuary of our office. Although she was an otherwise petite woman, Angela's breasts were impressive and she was rightly self conscious of the adolescent leers she inevitably received whilst teaching. Thankfully for me, she was much less concerned out of the student eye.
"Guess so," I replied, trying not to peek too conspicuously as she stretched up to slide her arm into the sleeve of he jacket. "Looks like it's going to be a crappy weekend though"
Angela laughed, her whole face lighting up with her green-blue eyes. "We have a saying back home: 'there's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes!'" Angela had been born and raised in Scotland, and her fiery highland humour matched her hair.
I smiled, pleased for the laughter lightening an otherwise dark afternoon.
"True, I suppose. But in the meantime we're still going to get wet." The rain outside was starting to get heavier. There was the briefest of flashes through the window, but no thunder could yet be heard.
I picked up my briefcase, a battered leather number Dad had given me years before, stuffed in a handful of essays to mark over the weekend, and beat Angela to the door by half a pace. Smiling, I held it open so she could pass. "Ladies first," I said, in an exaggeratedly chivalrous tone.
"Why thankyou sir," she replied in the same spirit it was delivered. "Such manners!" She waited for me in the dim hallway as I wrestled with the stubborn door lock, and we walked together past the empty classroom toward the exit to the teacher's car park.
"What's on tonight?" I asked, genuinely interested.
"Netball. We play at six," she replied. I glanced at my watch. Four fifty.
"You'll be cutting it fine, won't you? To get home and out to the courts by then? In this weather the traffic'll be shithouse," I said.
Angela didn't seem concerned. "Nah, I'll go straight there. All my gear is in the car, I'll change when I get to the centre." With that comment the image of Angela's naked body floated unbidden through my mind. I held onto it for a second, savouring the image of the firm, pale curves of her athletic body, the light smattering of tan freckles spread across those firm, beautiful breasts. Quickly I banished the thought as it became harder to comfortably walk. I changed the subject.
"How's Dave these days?" I asked. Dave, Angela's husband had immigrated with her a few years ago. He worked for a large bank – I had never particularly cared which one – and was often working long hours.
For a moment, Angela's light, happy aura darkened somewhat. She was silent for a second before answering with a sigh. "Away. He's been in Sydney all week. He was meant to be home last night, but called yesterday. Now he's staying until Monday." Something about Angela's demeanour suggested there was more to the story, something left unsaid. I briefly considered pressing the issue, but we ran out of hallway.
The rain was really coming down now, and worse, the wind had picked up, blowing the huge drops sideways into the small alcove that contained the exit door. Again, I opened the door for her and she passed, silently this time, out into the cold. We stood close in the negligible protection of the doorway as we both furiously searched for our respective car keys.
Angela found hers first and with a faint jingle, bid her farewell.
"Well, see ya Monday. Don't play to hard!" It was probably a dig at my single lifestyle. More than once I had turned up Monday morning wearing dark glasses and a throbbing headache, begging he always energetic and bubbly woman not to speak so damn loudly. She had always accepted my condition with a patient, even slightly maternal, sympathy.
"Yeah, see ya. Don't you work too hard!" I replied, giving as good as I was getting. Angela was a renowned workaholic. Angela smiled again, and took off into the downpour toward her green Ford, annoyingly on the other side of the carpark. She had jogged about six paces before I called out to her: "Hey!" She paused and turned.
The wind was blowing her cardigan open wide and even the brief exposure to the rain had started to make the white cotton cling tightly to her breasts. The outline of the grey and white lace bra she wore was already plainly visible underneath. "Good luck with you game!" I shouted over the wind, she flashed a wincing smile in the storm, waved, and continued off toward her car. I watched her retreating form vanish into the mist and rain, noticing not for the first time that her figure was equally impressive from behind.
I sat in my car in silence on the way home, soaking wet from the downpour. The images of her naked form returned quickly to my mind, this time writhing in passion under my own thrusting body. Once again I started to get hard, but this time I allowed myself a quick stroke and readjust, keeping the memory strong. A memory stirred, old plans that had long been dismissed as an abject and absurd fantasy began to resurface and appeal once more.
I had been right about the traffic. The highway home was bumper to bumper as water ran down the road in torrents. Up ahead a tram stopped periodically, allowing soaking and miserable passengers on and off. The traffic ground to a halt each time the clunking relic squeaked to a stop and the ancient doors rattled open. I rubbed my eyes and, checking that there wasn't an unmarked patrol car sitting behind me, opened the traveller I had stashed in the car for just such an emergency. The beer was good and cold, like the rest of the car, and I pointedly ignored the accusing glare of the old bird in the car next to me. Screw her, I thought, satisfied.
I soon gave the highway up as a bad joke, making a quick left and heading down the back streets. I carefully told myself that it was just a way to avoid the traffic, an if not quite
short
cut, certainly just an alternate route. I was still telling myself this as I pulled into Angela's street. It was a long boulevard, lined with the magnificent green elms that characterised this somewhat affluent part of town. Large, mostly modern, two storey houses lined one side of the street, the other was lined with a narrow band of shrubs before dropping off into the cutting for the train line.
