Ballet Pumps

Luxurious, these leather seats, and that clear, contoured glass. As fresh as this mint, as tacticle as the gears through the mid-30s and 40s. Around a tight bend, Ermina felt her chest strain against the seatbelt and became conscious of her top, lower than she’d normally wear, and her bra, more supportive and ostentatious than she’d normally choose. As tightly-tensioned as this bra. Richard pressed down on the accelerator.

“So, what do you want to do?” he asked, looked ahead as New Order started playing on the stereo.

“What, now? When we get there?” Ermina replied.

“Sure.”

“That’s not helpful,” she said, smiling.

“When we get there.”

“Just walk, I guess. It’s sunny.” Richard scoped out her flat shoes and realised she was serious. He shifted up a gear and the car laboured a little. It was too early.

“We can walk. It is a very nice day.”

“It’s so sunny,” said Ermina with a dreamy vagueness. She looked out of the passenger window and saw green fields and hedgerow rush by in a blur. In the distance, a bank of wind turbines. On the horizon, the pregnant swell of some neighbouring hills.

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