The Bell

There was a brevity to our encounter, he never knew my name. A fleeting meet. Like breathing on a dandelion on the last day of summer.

I’m romanticising maybe a little. The toilet we fucked in was dirty. Airless. We had an audience.

But still.

A moment stolen while we could. A desperation as unstoppable as the seeds blowing in the September breeze.

At the time I didn’t hear the men pissing, laughing, urging him on. Just surrendered to our sudden built desires.

It was quick. But satisfied a basic urge I think within us both.

Back at the bar he smiled as he thrust his phone number at me, scrawled on a damp paper scrap.

He didn’t put his name.

I never called him.

Prompted by TELEPHONE #284 for Wicked Wednesday 

Thanks for reading xXx