My footsteps left impressions in the ground. Looking back at those soft indentations, I felt a flush of pride, my mark. I was being foolish, because only a few moments passed before the impressions blurred under a drizzle that broke down the sharp outlines, the imprints created by toe and heel, as I strode toward her. Still, I felt oddly pleased at leaving this evidence of my presence, however fleeting, however dangerous.
The day’s bread delivery cradled easily in one arm as I strolled through the garden. Included was a pastry, snatched from the oven. My fingers still stung from the burn I got filching it. I would watch her eat it, taking delight from watching her savor the aromatic fruit filling. The marmelatta would burst out with her first bite, and the plum jam would stick to her mouth, slick and shining, as festive as a holiday dinner. It would dribble slowly down her chin, the darkly purple line a gash against that pale, tender skin. I would lick the gooey mess, flicking my tongue around the inside corners of her lips, tasting the richness, tasting her, smelling the sweet fruit on her skin.
I smiled, a secret delight of happy anticipation. My pulse gathered speed, thumping noisily just below my ears, and I struggled to right my trousers with the plate in one hand. My heart’s beat was loud. Loud enough that I didn’t hear the hiss as something sailed through the air past my neck.