"Jack! Fancy seeing you here."
The awkward moment of one-way recognition fell upon us. I'd been walking in a daze past a small pub tucked away in a row of houses. The woman who'd stood up from a table, where a friend of hers sat scrolling through her phone after glancing my way without much interest, was about ten years older than myself, wearing a black cardigan over a red shirt, a black skirt and black boots, drab office attire that gave the impression of a strong, curvy body, but an outfit that wouldn't have been out of place at a funeral. She stepped across the grass and onto the pavement.
"You're all grown up!"
Now she was stood directly front of me, blocking the path but in the kindest way possible, I remembered her as my sister's friend, one of a group of girls ranging from seven to nine years older than myself who'd flitted in and out my teenage brain over a decade ago, each conjuring up varied scenarios of sexual conquest. Each had offered my ravenous libido something to focus on while I locked myself in the bathroom and whacked myself off.
I was still grasping for her name. I remembered her as the loud one of the group, the one who seemed to elicit the most laughs from her peers, the one who developed physically before the rest and who I remembered would chat naturally and brazenly to my dad while the other skulked and giggled behind her. What escaped me was her name. I was saved by the mousy girl at the table.
"Kirsty. Neil's got to go a job. I'm on the school run. Sorry, babe."
They pecked each other cheeks and said that they'd see each other on Monday. Before her friend left, she rubbed Kirsty's arm and said, "Anything you need, I'm there. Bye gorgeous." She hadn't said it quietly, it seemed as though it was said for my benefit, as though she were warning me to tread carefully, that in during our break in contact, something heavy had happened. I usually switch off when my sister starts talking. I found myself wishing that I'd listened more. I could remember my mum's consoling noises when Kirsty had come up during their interminable catch-up conversations in the kitchen.
"Want to grab a drink, Jack?" Kirsty asked me.
I was out for a walk, research papers spread across my desk while my flatmate made a racket cleaning the flat in one of his OCD spells that came about whenever work stress overwhelmed him. The thought of returning to the sound of the vacuum cleaner and sharp, overpowering smell of detergent quashed the fact that I felt a little conscious of drinking with one of my sister's friends with whom I had little to no personal connection.
"A drink sounds great."
I went and ordered myself a beer and a white wine for Kirsty. Through the windows I saw her checking her makeup in a pocket mirror before turning her attention to her phone. When I returned, she was furiously texting someone.
"Are you telling Becca?" I said with a grin.
She smiled but beneath it I could sense that her teeth were clenched together. "I'm texting my solicitor. My pig of an ex-husband has...oh, it doesn't matter." She raised her glass. "Cheers! And don't worry, I think we're old and ugly enough to have a drink together without me telling her. At least straightaway."
"Well, you don't look old or ugly at all. You look fantastic."
"Divorce suits me, I guess. You look well. Are you still playing water polo?"
"On and off."
"I tried to take up swimming, but these bloody things," she said, indicating her large breasts, "are such a nuisance. I've scratched off running, swimming. I nearly knocked myself doing an inversion in yoga."
I laughed. "Maybe cycling? If you crash, they might save you from serious damage."
"They're a bloody nuisance."
"I bet they have their plus points."
"Hmm. I can assure that they do."
"Sorry to hear about your divorce. I think -- I'm sure my sister said something. I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's shit -- was shit. But now I'm so grateful it happened. You can only waste so much time before you realise what you're doing. I'm done with him and that relationship. Now I focus on making myself happy. I do what I want to do."
"That's a good attitude."
This was perhaps the longest we'd spoken, and with her declaration of her newly forged independent spirit we lapsed into an impasse. In the past we'd only exchanged pleasantries, or more to the point, I'd blushed and grumbled hello as my sister and her friends had collected at our house to put on their makeup and do karaoke before going out. I remembered how I used to spy on them when they sunbathed in the garden during summer heatwaves, trying my hardest to commit their bodies to memory before dashing off the toilet and locking myself in. I remembered her as the large-chested one with the short hair and the widest hips of them all; she still met that definition. I was now taller than her, even in her heels, and her hair was still short but now clipped fashionably to a slanting line below her ear lobe.
"I think that Becca told me you're finishing up your studies."
"That's right."
We chatted through another drink as it became chilly. I told her about my studies and the looming worry that years and years of studious effort and dedication to textbooks and lectures had left me in no way prepared for the actual world of work. She talked unenthusiastically about her job in real estate, so our conversation about careers petered out. The link that connected us, my sister, wasn't strong enough to sustain anything beyond these drinks. In fact, I thought I could sense some irritation in her by the way her eyes darted to the other men in the beer garden, as though wondering whether she could've been enjoying herself with them rather than her sister's awkward younger brother. We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us seemingly wondering for a polite way to say goodbye.
"I'm off for a wee," she said.
I thought that she we would wrap things up when she came back and was actually keen to return to the work that I'd promised myself I'd finish that evening so I could go to water polo in the morning without what was unfinished distracting me. Yet when she returned, she was still wearing her jacket, but there was a difference which took me only a second to comprehend: she'd opened the buttons of her shirt, so that I could clearly see her cleavage and the frilly edge of a black bra. She looked around the punters at the other tables and finished her drink with cool detachment, as though revealing the tops of her breasts were the most natural thing as a cold spring night moved in. She noticed me glancing there as I downed the dregs of my drink.
"Oops," she said, "looking down. I'm all on show." But she made no move to do up the buttons. "Are they distracting?"
"They are."
This exchange lasted fifteen seconds, but in that brief time the vibe between us had altered completely. I suddenly felt pent up, twitchy. My cock was awake. I could smell her perfume and her lips now looked tremendously full and the look in her eyes was intense and lustful. The night of the drinkers became muffled as we focused intently on each other. We said nothing but gave each knowing looks. I longer tried to hide my glances at her chest. She edged her chest forward an inch, allowing me even more of a view.
