By the river that barely ran - although they called it tidal most agreed HARDLY! CUNT’S STILL AS A POND! - they stood in strained silence and passed the drink between them and brushed the tips of their fingers slightly when they passed it and felt incredible excitement as they did so. The still water was fetid in odour and thick with scum, bread wrappers and tin cans amidst submerged clouds of silt. The only sound was of heavy traffic which intensified their desire, the revved engines and hot aggression aphrodisiacal in its proximity, as though they were bit parts in someone else’s choreographed sex scene. He swallowed the last drops and threw the bottle into the middle of the river.
“Probably shouldn’t have,” she said, cupping one hand to his arse.
“I know really,” he said, quite ready in his balls.
In time the sun would drop below the warehouses and industrial premises behind the thin line of part-felled trees on the opposite bank and he would lead her beneath the thick foliage of the single willow and eke her trousers down an inch or so beneath the horizon of her buttocks and bend her barely forwards and fuck her urgently and very afraid only feet from the voices that rose like memories from the landscape, but for then they watched the bottle sink where it landed, the river too still to carry it off.
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