It was hot, blisteringly. The unrelenting beat of the burning sun was tiring. There was a haze that seemed to be burning off just above the ground, shimmering skywards. The concrete, the buildings, the potted plants, the earth seemed to be melting.
Old Jim fanned himself, on his hot pink plastic lounge, with a dog-eared magazine. The sweat beaded on his lined, leathery, forehead and then rolled all the way down his pointed nose.
The neon sign over head flashed vacancy, languorously.
Brad pulled himself out of the crisp, cold water, with a hand on each of the chrome uprights of the pool ladder. One tug from his broad shoulders and he’d pulled his torso and hips out of the lapping, chlorinated water, which dripped from his tanned skin. His trunks slid from his curved buttocks as he heaved himself up, exposing the colour difference between his skin for public and private viewing.
Old Jim sat upright on his iridescent banana lounge, trying not to miss any part of the show. He looked like he hoped for more.
Brad didn’t care, he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. He caught the glint in Jim’s eye and knew instantly what he’d be doing so as to avoid having to do a runner. Just close your eyes.
All he felt was relief, from an impossible position. Jim was nice enough, even if he did smell kind of odd.
Brad ran his hand over his curved arse and stared hard at Jim. Jim licked his lips slowly as he adjusted his seating position.
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