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There would never be another first time with Jenna. There would, I was certain, be more nights with her, but never another first night; it had to be perfect.My hands slipped up and down her arms and the coolness of her skin delighted me. I took her face in my hands. I reached around and unlocked the car's back door on my side. I slid the front seat all the way forward, got out, and got into the back seat. She saw what I did and she mimicked my moves.Both of us in the back, I locked the doors once again and pulled her to me. We hadn't spoken for minutes. I had nothing to say only to do. She was following my lead. I pulled her to me and she laid her head on my chest. I let my hand brush her breast, then stroke it, then feel its full fleshiness through the cotton of her blouse.I began unbuttoning her and she leaned back a little and watched me do it. I spread her blouse open and unhooked her bra in front; her breasts spilled out of their cups small and pointed and naked; she looked like. She turns abruptly and walks outside onto the veranda. Moonlight washes the old wooden flooring in pale white light. The gnarled fingers of the old sycamore tree snatch at the shadows, swayed by the wind. She fumbles in her pocket for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. The scratch of the match striking against the sandpapery face of the battered matchbox seems irrepressibly loud. A cricket’s mating call from somewhere in the bushes grates against her ear, insistent – lonely. She is so very lonely. The glowing red light of the cigarette seems to act as a tiny, blinking beacon in the sea of darkness. She takes in a drag of the cigarette and puffs out cloudy white smoke. She sighs to herself, revelling in the peace. It is not to last, of course. From inside, the phone rings. She moves automatically to answer it, then in a brief moment of rebellion hesitates – decides to ignore it. There will be consequences. She does not care. At least, not now. The phone stops ringing. He comes up.
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