Her Breast

Each break including summer holidays I'd slave for heavy industry to make some dough. Fell into bed at eight and had no time for R & R nor any other girl. When school resumed I feared that the acquired calluses would be at best gazed at with some disdain. And that they were, to my chagrin. I metamorphed into a chaste and sober guy, afraid of being dumped by lips that kissed. Hence it was logical that we took walks along the Mississippi banks, and in the snow, submersed in silent mode, mile after frosty mile. A week had passed when she woke up to ask about the clouds on our horizon. I mumbled of the sacredness of her soft skin, in need of being kept, free of the blemishes of blue collar worker's hands, I held them high to amplify my rationale. It made her smile. That wistful smile which had attracted me that day under fluorescent lights, when Gods had been too kind. She took my heavy hand and placed it, lovingly upon her breast. And then she kissed me once. It was the grace of love I never did forget.