She sits with her legs crossed hands on her knees in short shorts and a t shirt that isn’t exposing the cleavage of her C breasts, but is tight enough you can see their shape perfectly. Her blonde hair sets upon her shoulders and shines in the light from the window and she ever so slightly smiles up at me, her red lipstick making her lips contrast with her eye shadow and bringing out her beauty, though I don’t feel she needs help to do that.I catch myself staring so I shake my head and ask, “What are you doing here?”“Mom sent me up to get you. Breakfast is ready and she didn’t want it to get cold,” she replied with a slight smile, almost like she was trying not to laugh.“Ok. Well I’m on my way down, just let me get dressed.” I told her.“All righty then.” She said as she jumped up and left closing my door behind her.I let out a sigh and drop my towel. As I do I notice I am starting to get a hard on and start to wonder if that’s why she was suppressing a laugh. Could she see it? Did it. He’d been to a secondary reunion a couple of years ago. It had been good to meet old friends and compare notes, and come away quietly smug that, even if he wasn’t earning as much as Jaz and Ahmed, he was a respected academic who had been interviewed once on Panorama by Jemima Lossit (the new thinking man’s crumpet – as the Mail had dubbed her in non PC terms).He re-read the letter offering him the post at Aberdeen University. A full lectureship; they liked his PhD, they loved his paper on “Ethnicity and Economic Control”, and they thought he came across well on the TV. He had been invited up to properly check the department out, a week staying in halls and trying a couple of lectures and meeting the students. ‘Keen as mustard’, the letter said the students were. Do people really say that now? Would he go? He had accepted, but really to keep the option open. He hadn’t mentioned it to Tulsa, who thought that life and civilisation ended somewhere in the Midlands; beyond that was wode.
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