He sat in the shade of the big tree on the lawn. Up on the tennis court to the side of the house his daughter was playing one of her friends. The two of them made a pleasant contrast, Sally blond and fuller figured and her friend dark-haired and slighter. Their white tennis skirts bounced up and down on their firm haunches and from time to time showed the white pants snug to their bottoms. He realised that made him see Sally in a different light - less as simply his daughter, more as a girl like other girls, as attractive as other girls, and for that matter with a bottom which was as appealing as her friend's. It was pleasant to muse on this, whiling away an afternoon so hot that he had his legs parted in his shorts to cool them and a glass of chill white wine in his hand.
Time passed in a bit of a haze till the couple left the tennis court, the friend got into her car in front of the house and drove off, and his daughter crossed the lawn towards him. She parked herself on the ground in front of him, lying on one side with an elbow on the ground and her head on one hand. How her haunch mounted, swelled, he thought - a different view of the same feature he had enjoyed while she was playing.
-Claire had to rush off, she said. You seemed to be taking an interest - I saw you looking. I thought you weren't interested in tennis?
-I'm not. It was a pleasant sight though.
-She's attractive, is Claire.
-So are you.
-Am I? To you? That's good to hear.
-Don't you think I think you are?
-I don't think you think about it one way or the other. If you do you never say so.
-Something in that. I'm sorry. You looked very attractive playing, so I'm telling you that, at any rate.
She sat upright, knees up and apart, ankles crossed. He noticed her short skirt fell between her thighs concealing her crotch, and noticed himself noticing.
-Well, thank you for looking. Maybe you should get yourself another girl friend. You could look at her all you wanted. It's a long time since mother...
-I suppose I should. But I could say the same. You seem to have been out and about a bit, but if there's a boy friend you've kept him very secret.
-There isn't really. Not that I haven't tried a few times.
-Not interested? Well, sometimes people aren't, till they meet someone who...
-Not interested? I'm only too darned interested. It's more that...
-That what?
-Hard for us to talk about it, isn't it. Maybe if mother was still alive...
-As long as you're interested, what's the problem? After all you're eighteen, you can trust yourself not to be stupid, so why not be interested? Lots of boys would be interested in you.
She shuffled about, indecisive or prevaricating.
-Glass of wine, incidentally? he asked.
-Yes. Cold, I hope.
He had brought out two spare glasses in case she brought her friend for a drink. He poured and passed. She bent forward to take one and then drank most of it, her brief skirt bunching up. When she sat back he could see the lower part of her white pants between her thighs. Could see, and looked. And swiftly took in details - the white pants cutting in across just below the cheeks of her bottom, holding and emphasising them, and then the seam at their edge vanishing at the two edges of the soft pouch between her legs, the top of which vanished from sight under her skirt.
-Dad, she expostulated.
Caught in the act he looked up at her face. She was blushing slightly, her eyes on him part surprised part reproachful part amused. She did not change the way she was sitting.
-It's difficult, she said, holding his eyes so that her pants were now dim, at the edge of his vision, though he was still so aware of them.
-I mean, I can give it a go, she went on. I have, if I can tell you that. Only. Nothing lives up to, or has at all lived up to - well, what one imagines. Heaven knows I have the interest - only how to live it? With anyone? Unless they're of a like mind? Pretty much exactly like my mind, in fact. A lot to ask.
-You're very self-aware. Maybe too much for your own good, or at least your own ease in living.
-My father's daughter, then. Living it too much in my own head.
-You think I do that?
-Come on, dad. Living here on your own. I know your books. I know what you get up to. Or can guess.
-Now it's me who feels it's hard to talk.
-Embarrassed? So'm I in fact. But why not get through it? When we're alike but don't say.
-I suppose so. Doesn't get either of us any nearer a solution
-Why shouldn't you look, she said unexpectedly. If you want to look. I don't mind you looking. Why should I grudge you it? Why not share it? Two people wanting things...
With one hand she quickly bunched her skirt into her lap. He stared at the deep full soft pouch cased in white, her pants running tight down each side of it, forming and defining the shape of her hidden sex. Half a dozen stray straw-coloured hairs stuck out from the sides of her pants. Her bottom swelled firm and full beside the pouch, her unblemished skin an almost transparent pinkish white. He looked at the long insides of her thighs, the curve of the muscle under her skin.
-You look serious, she said.
-Of course.
-What do you want now then?
-Heaven knows what either of us wants, or can have.
-It.
-It?
-That's what I want. It. The things. I think about them. And in a way I've had them. But with those tiresome boys. Anti-climactic.
