He sat in the old green armchair, sunken into it's 10 years thin cushioning.
A pale thin light drifted in through the big pane window which looked out onto the cold, damp, and abandoned street.
It was such a quiet neighbourhood at this late time of the morning.
Sitting in his shorts he kept looking back to his legs. He traced his fingers slowly and felt through the strong, firm muslces around his thigh. He could see the well defined muscles there and every now and then he might tense and relax the muscle, to remind himself it was alive, and a part of him.
Taking a deep breathe and remembering how thirsty he was, he turned his head left to the girl sitting on the table beside him.
Such a pretty face.
From under her plain thin white chiffon dress she had the palest legs. Thin legs. Supple. You would have to search long to find muscle there. Likely you'd find bone first. but not before softness.
Her smell and the smell or the roses in the garden in the yard brought his attention back to the window.
He closed his eyes in the silence and exhaled.