The Tradie

He has a relaxed, almost lazy demeanor. It shows in his gait and the way his mouth hangs open ever so slightly when he walks. He sports a rose tattoo on his left arm. His navy blue shorts and shirt, and his resignation to the futility of laundering betray evidence of his lot as a manual labourer.

She orders her coffee and retreats to the corner table. She observes him and feels a strange combination of revulsion and yearning. By her usual standards, he is so far beneath her, and to her surprise, she finds herself imagining his lean and toned body in just that position.

She awoke this morning feeling tired as she has every other day for God knows how long. She feels almost grateful that her eyesight is failing. It helps her to ignore the wrinkles and loose skin appearing on her face. Just one year away from the half-century mark, this morning she is all too aware of the cruel legacy of age.

She stares at him transfixed as he dreamily orders his coffee. Maybe, she thinks, this is why she feels so aroused. She longs to challenge his complacency, to ruffle his feathers a bit.

Noticing a dark curl fall at his neck, she is suddenly no longer at her table… she is standing behind him, her face almost touching the smooth skin where the ringlet rests. She closes her eyes and deeply inhales his intoxicating scent.

She blushes and looks away, realising she is in a public place, shifting in her seat as she feels the moisture between her legs. She pulls a novel from her bag and pretends to read, glancing back at him now and then.

Soon, her imagination conquers reality. In her mind’s eye, he becomes Godlike as she moves her hand across his chest to his firm belly. His animal instinct awakens, diamonds of sweat form and glisten on his golden skin.

She smiles to herself secretly. Deep down she knows she still has this power; to call Gods forth from men.

She doesn’t notice him leave.

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