She bent. The wood was warm from the sun, the grain rough against her palms. She watched a mallard dive and surface, shake water from its emerald head. Behind her, the man unzipped his trousers. She counted the seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. A grunt. A rustle of fabric.
“Thank you,” he said, and walked away. freeuse freya parker
“Thank you,” her mother said, already returning to her tablet. “You can finish your breakfast.” She bent