Interview With Mrs. Onehour

Perhaps I had touched her ... but only an accidental glancing brush?She stood there looking at me. Her knees went together and her free hand swung down to cover her crotch. She was protecting her modesty through her clothes.And then it struck me: there was something different about her t-shirt. It wasn’t as as tight as normal. It didn’t stick out so much at the front. That was it! She wasn’t wearing a bra. How very stupid not to have noticed right from the beginning! I had never neglected to check her out before. And now I’d spent the evening with her and not noticed them. I felt a fool.“Please, go. Just go,” she said spoke so quietly it was almost impossible to hear her. She looked down at the floor. Shame welled in me, even though I was a bit unsure what exactly I’d touched.“I’m really sorry,” I said quietly. “It honestly was an accident,” I said as I walked slowly past her, hoping beyond hope that she would stop me.I was half way across the yard before she caught up. She swung me. The men would basically bring each other up to date on what was going on in their lives, conversations they’d had with their wives, decisions made, plans put together for future vacations or places they’d discovered that their children might like. Then the conversation would swing away to business, politics and. Of course, sport, with little byways into ‘remember when... ‘, trying to make each story more interesting or funny than the previous speaker. We all had pretty good senses of humour, and blasts of laughter would foghorn from the men’s group at regular intervals.And the women would do the same.Except their conversations seemed set at a much more basic level than ours.There were no fixed rules or even conscious decisions about when and how the groups would form, and people would split away to chat to people in the other group all the time; reminding a partner of something they had just thought of, telling a titbit of gossip just heard that was too good to wait until the trip.
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