The Mighty Arms of Madness

I’m not really reading the newspaper. I’m not really focusing on what I’m eating or what I’m doing. I’m watching them. I can only just see them out of the corner of my eye. I’m dying to turn my head and watch them properly.

I can feel the heat they’re generating. I can smell the warm intensity of their lust. I can hear their lips, their tongues, their mouths.

I want to know if his hand is on her leg, on her waist. I want to know if his hand is in her hair. I want to know, does he bite her lip? I want to know, does she bite his? I want to know if there is blood, the taste of blood and saliva mixed together.

I hear them stop. I hear her give a small laugh – a laugh thick, almost drunk. I hear her laugh and it says “Gee that was full on. And in a café!”

I can’t resist - I turn my head. I turn my head and I see his face. I see his eyes clouded with passion. I see that he is not looking at her; he is looking at her hair, her throat. I see his eyes move to her breasts and stay there.

I return to not reading the newspaper.

I hear him say her name. I hear her laugh at him. I hear that she is gently trying to calm him down. I hear her talk of work and of weekends and walks in the park.

I hear him whisper her name.

I hear her say “Perhaps we should go?”

I sense that he may have gone too far.

I see her stand and walk to the door. I see him struggle to keep up with her.

I want to know.