You could tell he was shy. He was sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing a bottle of beer, eyeing the half naked men dancing under the ...ights. He hadn’t looked in my direction yet.I walked over near him and stood against the wall. I looked down at the back of his neck, feeling my own neck tingle as I imagined how delicious his skin would feel against my lips. He must have sensed me looking, because his head turned. He looked at my face, then his eyes dropped to my crotch. Back to. Letters were exchanged and declarations of love, but the passion was gradually seeping away, at least on her part. As for Michael, he poured out his heart in long paragraphs of purple prose. Incapable of poetry himself he resorted to quoting Browning, Tennyson and even Lorenz Hart. As the months went by, June realised her memories of Michael were fading. She hated herself for every faintly disloyal thought, but he was becoming more and more like a stranger. She was a young, lively, pretty girl. More

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