The Open Air It wasn’t that they were in public that drove the thrill that was running dow

The Open Air It wasn’t that they were in public that drove the thrill that was running down her spine with all the electricity of a crowd. She could hear the people bumbling past, a throng that was more amorphous than individual, twenty feet away and myopic, staring straight ahead, or up at the street names, or down at their phones. They couldn’t care less about what was happening in their periphery. They couldn’t care less about them.  No, what charged the situation was the rush of air, the temperature, the coldness of his hand. It was the lack of comfort; bedsheets, mattresses  central heating. Soft light and silence, punctuated only by the occasional moan or grunt, heavy breathing the only percussion.  But out here, in the open air, there was a constant interruption of traffic. There were planes flying overhead, the wind rustling in her ears. There were smells, the grime of the city against her back. Litter tumbling down the alleyway as if on its own mission, traversing from North to South, eventually making it over the river and into the idyl of some large common.  His hands felt rough, not in treatment but in texture. His breath was hot, squalid  rushed. Her clothes felt coarse, and every moment felt connected, where at home they were cut off, in their own little bubble of sexuality and debauchery. It wasn’t that they were in public, it was that they were in public.  What a difference a little emphasis could make.  -- source link

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