The lecture

The lecture let out into hard daylight and a concrete plaza. I am twenty-four. He is fifty-six. We had sat two rows apart and talked on the steps because the speaker had said something wrong about shadow, and I could not let it go. He listened like a man who likes being corrected by someone who knows. He does not hire me. He does not teach me. He asked if I wanted coffee. I said I wanted to keep talking, and then I said I wanted him to fuck me.

We walked to the side of the building where the wind dropped. I kept the white shirt and the ponytail. He asked, out loud, if a kiss was welcome. I said yes and put my mouth on his. He tasted like the bad lobby coffee and he kissed like he had time. I liked that. I told him he could put a hand at my waist. He did, warm through cotton, and he said I had a good mind and a lovely mouth and that he was not going to pretend those were separate compliments. The praise went straight to my cunt.

I opened two buttons and let him see the silk. His breath changed. I said you can touch, and he did, careful, thumb over the cup of the bra until my nipple tightened. My cunt was wet against my own thigh. I took his wrist and pressed his palm lower, over the skirt, and told him the rest could happen at his place if he still wanted to fuck a woman who argues about shadow. He said he wanted exactly that. We did not rush the walk. I held his hand in the daylight like it was ordinary, because it was.

On the train I texted him one line. I am coming because I want you to fuck my cunt. He answered, I know. That was the whole courtship and I liked the size of it.