A Story. This is just a story.

A plump, ripe, breast.
Just take a moment, only a moment, to appreciate such a wondrous sight.
And before I go any further, I'd like to point out that I'm not thinking of one that appears marinated in a white wine sauce with a compliment of sauteed potatoes.
No. Nothing like that.
Right now I'm looking at a left breast, hidden behind a black singlet.
That same singlet is held together by thread.
My mind takes me on a journey where I am physically able to unravel each and every stitch, and suddenly the singlet falls to one side, and out pops this beautiful, bare, boob.
The left one.
What happens next is anyones guess.
Maybe I help her to put it back in, maybe I chance a quick squeeze, maybe, maybe,but wait. What's this?
SLAP!
It hits me like a flick on the balls.

Fifteen. She's only fifteen.

But she looks eighteen. Those three years make a hell of a difference, legality, personality, musical tastes........................
Musical tastes.
Mind wandering time again.
Fuck, what would she listen to?
Shite, probably. Spanish shite at that. Two years here and nothing decent to listen to.
Maybe I'm not listening to the right radio station.
Maybe I'm not looking in the right places.
Maybe.....
Fifteen.
Christ.
Born in nineteen ninety three.
Fuck, I feel old.

"Excuse me, but you help me with this??"
It takes me a moment to realise that this is a question, and that it requires me to offer a response.
I continue to stare.
"Sir, I want help with this."
"Yes. Sorry, sorry, what's......what's up....?
Time to get into the role.
And it is a role.
A role in which I didn't prepare for, in fact it's almost like opening night, and everyone else has their lines, but I was told to stand there and wing it. Improvise.
Improvise.
Fuck.
I've been doing that for three months now.

I stand up. The initial thought is one of dread.
What's she going to ask? Do I know the answer?
What am I doing here?
Whose idea was it to be an English teacher anyway?