Yesterday, 04:34 PM
I did not step away. My wife was still occupied with her phone, the yellow chiffon saree shifting softly as she stood. I kept my voice low and even, the same calm tone, as if I were only curious about the technical side of the moment.
“You said you looked properly,” I said. “Her white panties stretched over her pussy, everything clear. How were you controlling yourself while you were looking?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward my wife, then back to me. His fingers flexed once on the camera strap. He hesitated, but the frankness I had asked for earlier was still in him.
“It was not easy, sir.” His voice stayed quiet. “Her feet were in my hands. She was laughing, eyes closed, body moving. And her white panties were right there, pulled tight, showing the full shape of her pussy. I could feel myself getting hard. I had to keep my face normal. I had to keep taking the pictures like it was only about her feet. If I had stared too long without the camera, she would have noticed. You would have noticed.”
I felt my cock throb hard at the admission, a thick, slow pulse that pushed it more firmly against the inside of my trousers. Fresh wetness leaked from the tip. The image of him kneeling there, holding her feet, staring at her white panties while forcing himself to look ordinary, sat hot in my stomach. I did not let any of it reach my face.
“So you were hard,” I said, still mild, “while you were looking at her white panties, and you still kept going.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I was hard the whole time. I controlled it by staying behind the camera. By making it look like work. But I was looking. And I did not want to stop looking.”
Another heavy ache moved through my boner. I nodded once, expression unchanged, hands still loose at my sides, while he stood there having just told me exactly how hard he had been, and how carefully he had hidden it, the entire time her white panties were exposed in front of him.
My wife shifted her weight a few steps away, still looking at her phone, the yellow chiffon saree moving gently around her legs. I stayed where I was, voice kept low and unhurried.
“What will you do with those pictures?” I asked. “The ones of her white panties.”
Arjun’s hand rested on his camera bag. He answered carefully, the safe version first.
“I will keep them, sir. Like you said. Private. No one else will see them.”
I looked at him without blinking.
“Be honest with me. Not the safe answer. What will you actually do with the pictures of her white panties?”
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved once toward my wife, then returned to mine. When he spoke, the caution had thinned.
“I will keep them on my phone, sir. I will look at them again. When I am alone.” His voice dropped further. “I will look at how her white panties were stretched over her pussy. How clear the shape was. And I will… use them. While I look.”
The admission landed heavy. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, a thick, deliberate pulse that made the leaking tip drag wetly against the fabric. Heat pooled low in my stomach. I saw, for a second, the exact image he would be staring at later—her white panties pulled tight, her pussy outlined beneath them—and felt another slow leak spread. Nothing showed on my face. I only nodded, once, calm.
“You will look at her white panties and touch yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” He did not look away. “That is what I will do.”
I let the silence hold. My boner ached, full and untouched, while he stood in front of me having just said, plainly, that he would use the pictures of my wife’s white panties when he was alone. I gave him no reaction beyond another small, unreadable nod.
My wife remained a short distance away, thumb moving over her phone, unaware. I kept my voice low, the same steady tone I had used for the pictures.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands were on my wife’s ass… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s ass cheeks?”
Arjun’s posture shifted. He glanced toward my wife, then back at me. For a moment he stayed inside the careful answer.
“Sir, I was only adjusting her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. The fold—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet and even. “I will not get angry. Tell me properly.”
He exhaled. The hesitation left his face. His voice dropped.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke slowly, as if remembering the exact weight. “I put both hands on her ass. Her ass cheeks were full and heavy under her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. I squeezed. I could feel how soft her ass cheeks were, and how they filled my hands. I pressed my fingers along the edges of her white panties underneath. I held her ass longer than I needed to. I liked the way her ass felt. I did not want to take my hands off.”
The detail moved straight through me. My cock throbbed hard, thickening further inside my trousers, a fresh surge of wetness leaking from the tip and spreading warm against my skin. I felt the ache settle deep in my balls. The memory of his palms covering my wife’s ass, and now the knowledge of exactly how much he had liked the feel of her ass cheeks, made the pressure worse. I did not shift. I did not let my breathing change. My face stayed calm and empty.
“So you felt my wife’s ass cheeks properly,” I said. “And you liked how heavy and soft they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her ass. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse rolled through my boner. I nodded once, expression unreadable, while the truth of how thoroughly he had groped and enjoyed my wife’s ass sat hot and leaking between my legs.
My wife was still a little apart from us, eyes on her phone, one hand resting lightly on her yellow pallu. I kept my voice low and even.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands went under her yellow pallu onto her yellow blouse… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s boobs?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward her, then returned to me. He started with the careful version.
“Sir, I was only setting her yellow pallu straight. It had shifted—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet. “Same as before. I will not get angry.”
He was silent a moment. Then the restraint eased. His voice lowered.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke with the same slow detail. “I reached from behind and put both hands on her boobs over her yellow blouse. Her boobs were full and heavy. I could feel the weight of them in my palms. I squeezed. Her boobs filled my hands completely. I pressed my thumbs along the lower curve of her boobs. I could feel how soft they were under her yellow blouse. I held them longer than the adjustment needed. I liked the way her boobs felt. I did not want to let go.”
The words hit low and direct. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, swelling thicker, a fresh leak of wetness spreading from the tip. The ache deepened in my balls. I kept every reaction out of my face and out of my posture. My hands stayed loose. My expression did not change.
“So you felt my wife’s boobs properly,” I said. “And you liked how full and heavy they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her boobs. And I enjoyed it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse moved through my boner. I nodded once, calm and unreadable, while the knowledge of how thoroughly he had groped and liked my wife’s boobs sat hard and leaking between my legs.
My wife looked up from her phone and touched my arm.
“We are getting late,” she said. “The biryani will be cold. The boys are waiting.”
She lifted her wrist and showed me the time on her watch. Arjun had already stepped closer. He held the camera out to me.
“Sir, one picture with madam before you go. Only one. I will stand with her.”
My wife shook her head, still showing the watch.
“It is already late.”
“Just one,” I said. My voice stayed even. “Then we leave.”
She looked at me, then gave a small, reluctant nod. Arjun moved to her side at once. He stood close, shoulder nearly touching hers, and smiled at her—easy, warm, a little cheeky. She managed a small smile in return for the frame. I raised the camera. They held still. I pressed the shutter.
The moment the click sounded, Arjun turned toward her.
“Thank you so much, madam,” he said, casual and light.
Before she could step away he pulled her fully into his arms. It was a complete embrace. His arms locked around her back, one hand settling low near her waist, the other higher between her shoulder blades, drawing her body flush against his. Her boobs pressed soft and full against his chest through her yellow blouse. Her hips met his. For a second she was held completely, the yellow chiffon saree crushed gently between them.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Not a quick brush. His mouth stayed on her cheek, warm and deliberate, lips parting just enough that she felt the soft inner edge of his mouth against her cheek. His breath touched her ear. My wife’s entire body went still. A small, involuntary shiver moved through her shoulders. Heat flooded her face. She felt the firm press of his chest against her boobs, the strength in his arms, and the lingering kiss on her cheek all at once. Her breath caught. For half a second her hands rested on his arms instead of pushing, fingers curling once as if her body had not yet decided.
Then she broke it. Her palms came up against his chest and she pushed, stepping back sharply, the yellow chiffon saree pulling tight across her boobs and hips as she moved. Colour burned high on her cheeks and down her neck. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, chest rising faster under the yellow blouse. She came straight to me, one hand catching my sleeve, standing close enough that I could feel the quickness of her breathing.
I lowered the camera and gave it back to Arjun. He took it without comment, face still pleasant, as if the embrace and the kiss on her cheek had been nothing more than thanks.
“Send the pictures to this number,” I said, and told him my WhatsApp. “All of them.”
“Yes, sir. Tonight.”
My wife kept her hand on my sleeve, face still flushed, eyes lowered. I picked up the biryani bags. We walked out of the corner. The warmth of his mouth on her cheek and the brief, full press of her body against his stayed with both of us as we stepped back onto the main street.
We walked back toward the parking side of the multiplex, the biryani bags warm against my leg. My wife stayed a half-step closer than usual. Her yellow chiffon saree shifted with each step, the pallu held tighter across her chest. For a minute she said nothing. Then her voice came, low and careful, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.
“He was not professional.”
Her fingers tightened on the edge of her yellow pallu. Colour had returned to her cheeks.
“When he was behind me… he did not only adjust. His hands went over my ass. He felt my white panties through my yellow chiffon saree and my yellow petticoat. I could feel his fingers tracing the edges of my white panties. He squeezed my ass cheeks properly. He held them. It was not correcting a fold.”
She glanced at me, quick and uneasy, then looked forward again. Her shoulders had drawn in.
“And still from behind… his hands came around under my yellow pallu. He felt my boobs over my yellow blouse and my bra. Both hands. He squeezed my boobs from behind. I felt his palms on them, his thumbs moving. He held my boobs longer than any adjustment needs. Then the hug. The kiss on my cheek. That was naughty. He is a pervert.”
Her breath was a little shorter now. She waited for my answer, one hand still gripping the pallu.
I kept my voice calm, steady.
“He is a photographer. He was trying to get the best frames. The light, the angle, the way the saree and the blouse sit. That is his work. It is art. He takes it seriously.”
She turned her head fully toward me. Her eyes searched my face. The blush on her cheeks deepened.
“Did you feel bad? When he was doing all that to me?”
“Absolutely not.” The words came at once, even and sure. “I did not feel bad. He was working. He wanted the pictures to come out well. There is nothing to feel bad about.”
She studied me a second longer, lips pressed together, then looked ahead again. I continued, tone reasonable.
“He is somebody’s son. Young, trying to build something with his camera. We have sons of our own. If we help somebody else’s son when he is working hard, someday someone will help our sons the same way. That is how it works. He was polite. He asked. He stopped when you said enough. Even if his hands stayed a little longer on your ass or on your boobs from behind, it was for the shot. The pictures will be good because he cared about them.”
She was quiet. Her steps slowed. One hand rose and brushed the edge of her yellow pallu. When she spoke again her voice was softer.
“You really believe that? Even after I felt his hands on my white panties through the saree and petticoat? Even after he squeezed my boobs from behind over my blouse and bra?”
“Yes. Helping him today is no different from hoping someone helps our boys tomorrow. He is professional. A little bold, maybe, but professional. You yourself said he stopped when you told him enough.”
We reached the car. I unlocked it and opened the passenger door. She paused, then got in, her yellow chiffon saree settling around her legs. I placed the bags in the back and sat in the driver’s seat. For a moment neither of us spoke. The doors shut out the outside noise. I glanced at her, a small, naughty edge already in my voice.
“So… when his hands were on your ass and on your boobs like that… did he make you horny?”
Her head snapped toward me. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed at once. Colour rushed up her neck and across her cheeks.
“Rajesh!”
She reached over and slapped my arm, sharp but playful.
“What kind of question is that?”
I laughed under my breath. She slapped my arm again, then my shoulder, light and quick.
“Shut up! You are mad.”
“I am only asking,” I said, still smiling. “You were describing it in so much detail. His hands on your white panties, squeezing your boobs from behind… I thought maybe—”
“Thought what?” She hit my thigh this time, half-laughing, half-outraged. “You thought I got horny? From that photographer? Are you hearing yourself?”
She shook her head hard, but her mouth was fighting a smile. She slapped my arm once more, softer.
“You are impossible. Completely impossible. Drive the car before I hit you properly.”
“So that is a no?” I asked, teasing.
“It is a shut up and drive,” she said, turning toward the window, one hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders shook once. A small, embarrassed laugh escaped anyway. “God… what has got into you tonight?”
I started the engine. She kept her face turned away, cheeks still burning, but the smile stayed. The city lights began to move across the glass as I pulled out of the parking, the playful scolding and the unanswered question still warm between us in the car.
“You said you looked properly,” I said. “Her white panties stretched over her pussy, everything clear. How were you controlling yourself while you were looking?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward my wife, then back to me. His fingers flexed once on the camera strap. He hesitated, but the frankness I had asked for earlier was still in him.
“It was not easy, sir.” His voice stayed quiet. “Her feet were in my hands. She was laughing, eyes closed, body moving. And her white panties were right there, pulled tight, showing the full shape of her pussy. I could feel myself getting hard. I had to keep my face normal. I had to keep taking the pictures like it was only about her feet. If I had stared too long without the camera, she would have noticed. You would have noticed.”
I felt my cock throb hard at the admission, a thick, slow pulse that pushed it more firmly against the inside of my trousers. Fresh wetness leaked from the tip. The image of him kneeling there, holding her feet, staring at her white panties while forcing himself to look ordinary, sat hot in my stomach. I did not let any of it reach my face.
“So you were hard,” I said, still mild, “while you were looking at her white panties, and you still kept going.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I was hard the whole time. I controlled it by staying behind the camera. By making it look like work. But I was looking. And I did not want to stop looking.”
Another heavy ache moved through my boner. I nodded once, expression unchanged, hands still loose at my sides, while he stood there having just told me exactly how hard he had been, and how carefully he had hidden it, the entire time her white panties were exposed in front of him.
My wife shifted her weight a few steps away, still looking at her phone, the yellow chiffon saree moving gently around her legs. I stayed where I was, voice kept low and unhurried.
“What will you do with those pictures?” I asked. “The ones of her white panties.”
Arjun’s hand rested on his camera bag. He answered carefully, the safe version first.
“I will keep them, sir. Like you said. Private. No one else will see them.”
I looked at him without blinking.
“Be honest with me. Not the safe answer. What will you actually do with the pictures of her white panties?”
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved once toward my wife, then returned to mine. When he spoke, the caution had thinned.
“I will keep them on my phone, sir. I will look at them again. When I am alone.” His voice dropped further. “I will look at how her white panties were stretched over her pussy. How clear the shape was. And I will… use them. While I look.”
The admission landed heavy. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, a thick, deliberate pulse that made the leaking tip drag wetly against the fabric. Heat pooled low in my stomach. I saw, for a second, the exact image he would be staring at later—her white panties pulled tight, her pussy outlined beneath them—and felt another slow leak spread. Nothing showed on my face. I only nodded, once, calm.
“You will look at her white panties and touch yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” He did not look away. “That is what I will do.”
I let the silence hold. My boner ached, full and untouched, while he stood in front of me having just said, plainly, that he would use the pictures of my wife’s white panties when he was alone. I gave him no reaction beyond another small, unreadable nod.
My wife remained a short distance away, thumb moving over her phone, unaware. I kept my voice low, the same steady tone I had used for the pictures.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands were on my wife’s ass… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s ass cheeks?”
Arjun’s posture shifted. He glanced toward my wife, then back at me. For a moment he stayed inside the careful answer.
“Sir, I was only adjusting her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. The fold—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet and even. “I will not get angry. Tell me properly.”
He exhaled. The hesitation left his face. His voice dropped.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke slowly, as if remembering the exact weight. “I put both hands on her ass. Her ass cheeks were full and heavy under her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. I squeezed. I could feel how soft her ass cheeks were, and how they filled my hands. I pressed my fingers along the edges of her white panties underneath. I held her ass longer than I needed to. I liked the way her ass felt. I did not want to take my hands off.”
The detail moved straight through me. My cock throbbed hard, thickening further inside my trousers, a fresh surge of wetness leaking from the tip and spreading warm against my skin. I felt the ache settle deep in my balls. The memory of his palms covering my wife’s ass, and now the knowledge of exactly how much he had liked the feel of her ass cheeks, made the pressure worse. I did not shift. I did not let my breathing change. My face stayed calm and empty.
“So you felt my wife’s ass cheeks properly,” I said. “And you liked how heavy and soft they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her ass. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse rolled through my boner. I nodded once, expression unreadable, while the truth of how thoroughly he had groped and enjoyed my wife’s ass sat hot and leaking between my legs.
My wife was still a little apart from us, eyes on her phone, one hand resting lightly on her yellow pallu. I kept my voice low and even.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands went under her yellow pallu onto her yellow blouse… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s boobs?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward her, then returned to me. He started with the careful version.
“Sir, I was only setting her yellow pallu straight. It had shifted—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet. “Same as before. I will not get angry.”
He was silent a moment. Then the restraint eased. His voice lowered.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke with the same slow detail. “I reached from behind and put both hands on her boobs over her yellow blouse. Her boobs were full and heavy. I could feel the weight of them in my palms. I squeezed. Her boobs filled my hands completely. I pressed my thumbs along the lower curve of her boobs. I could feel how soft they were under her yellow blouse. I held them longer than the adjustment needed. I liked the way her boobs felt. I did not want to let go.”
The words hit low and direct. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, swelling thicker, a fresh leak of wetness spreading from the tip. The ache deepened in my balls. I kept every reaction out of my face and out of my posture. My hands stayed loose. My expression did not change.
“So you felt my wife’s boobs properly,” I said. “And you liked how full and heavy they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her boobs. And I enjoyed it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse moved through my boner. I nodded once, calm and unreadable, while the knowledge of how thoroughly he had groped and liked my wife’s boobs sat hard and leaking between my legs.
My wife looked up from her phone and touched my arm.
“We are getting late,” she said. “The biryani will be cold. The boys are waiting.”
She lifted her wrist and showed me the time on her watch. Arjun had already stepped closer. He held the camera out to me.
“Sir, one picture with madam before you go. Only one. I will stand with her.”
My wife shook her head, still showing the watch.
“It is already late.”
“Just one,” I said. My voice stayed even. “Then we leave.”
She looked at me, then gave a small, reluctant nod. Arjun moved to her side at once. He stood close, shoulder nearly touching hers, and smiled at her—easy, warm, a little cheeky. She managed a small smile in return for the frame. I raised the camera. They held still. I pressed the shutter.
The moment the click sounded, Arjun turned toward her.
“Thank you so much, madam,” he said, casual and light.
Before she could step away he pulled her fully into his arms. It was a complete embrace. His arms locked around her back, one hand settling low near her waist, the other higher between her shoulder blades, drawing her body flush against his. Her boobs pressed soft and full against his chest through her yellow blouse. Her hips met his. For a second she was held completely, the yellow chiffon saree crushed gently between them.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Not a quick brush. His mouth stayed on her cheek, warm and deliberate, lips parting just enough that she felt the soft inner edge of his mouth against her cheek. His breath touched her ear. My wife’s entire body went still. A small, involuntary shiver moved through her shoulders. Heat flooded her face. She felt the firm press of his chest against her boobs, the strength in his arms, and the lingering kiss on her cheek all at once. Her breath caught. For half a second her hands rested on his arms instead of pushing, fingers curling once as if her body had not yet decided.
Then she broke it. Her palms came up against his chest and she pushed, stepping back sharply, the yellow chiffon saree pulling tight across her boobs and hips as she moved. Colour burned high on her cheeks and down her neck. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, chest rising faster under the yellow blouse. She came straight to me, one hand catching my sleeve, standing close enough that I could feel the quickness of her breathing.
I lowered the camera and gave it back to Arjun. He took it without comment, face still pleasant, as if the embrace and the kiss on her cheek had been nothing more than thanks.
“Send the pictures to this number,” I said, and told him my WhatsApp. “All of them.”
“Yes, sir. Tonight.”
My wife kept her hand on my sleeve, face still flushed, eyes lowered. I picked up the biryani bags. We walked out of the corner. The warmth of his mouth on her cheek and the brief, full press of her body against his stayed with both of us as we stepped back onto the main street.
We walked back toward the parking side of the multiplex, the biryani bags warm against my leg. My wife stayed a half-step closer than usual. Her yellow chiffon saree shifted with each step, the pallu held tighter across her chest. For a minute she said nothing. Then her voice came, low and careful, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.
“He was not professional.”
Her fingers tightened on the edge of her yellow pallu. Colour had returned to her cheeks.
“When he was behind me… he did not only adjust. His hands went over my ass. He felt my white panties through my yellow chiffon saree and my yellow petticoat. I could feel his fingers tracing the edges of my white panties. He squeezed my ass cheeks properly. He held them. It was not correcting a fold.”
She glanced at me, quick and uneasy, then looked forward again. Her shoulders had drawn in.
“And still from behind… his hands came around under my yellow pallu. He felt my boobs over my yellow blouse and my bra. Both hands. He squeezed my boobs from behind. I felt his palms on them, his thumbs moving. He held my boobs longer than any adjustment needs. Then the hug. The kiss on my cheek. That was naughty. He is a pervert.”
Her breath was a little shorter now. She waited for my answer, one hand still gripping the pallu.
I kept my voice calm, steady.
“He is a photographer. He was trying to get the best frames. The light, the angle, the way the saree and the blouse sit. That is his work. It is art. He takes it seriously.”
She turned her head fully toward me. Her eyes searched my face. The blush on her cheeks deepened.
“Did you feel bad? When he was doing all that to me?”
“Absolutely not.” The words came at once, even and sure. “I did not feel bad. He was working. He wanted the pictures to come out well. There is nothing to feel bad about.”
She studied me a second longer, lips pressed together, then looked ahead again. I continued, tone reasonable.
“He is somebody’s son. Young, trying to build something with his camera. We have sons of our own. If we help somebody else’s son when he is working hard, someday someone will help our sons the same way. That is how it works. He was polite. He asked. He stopped when you said enough. Even if his hands stayed a little longer on your ass or on your boobs from behind, it was for the shot. The pictures will be good because he cared about them.”
She was quiet. Her steps slowed. One hand rose and brushed the edge of her yellow pallu. When she spoke again her voice was softer.
“You really believe that? Even after I felt his hands on my white panties through the saree and petticoat? Even after he squeezed my boobs from behind over my blouse and bra?”
“Yes. Helping him today is no different from hoping someone helps our boys tomorrow. He is professional. A little bold, maybe, but professional. You yourself said he stopped when you told him enough.”
We reached the car. I unlocked it and opened the passenger door. She paused, then got in, her yellow chiffon saree settling around her legs. I placed the bags in the back and sat in the driver’s seat. For a moment neither of us spoke. The doors shut out the outside noise. I glanced at her, a small, naughty edge already in my voice.
“So… when his hands were on your ass and on your boobs like that… did he make you horny?”
Her head snapped toward me. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed at once. Colour rushed up her neck and across her cheeks.
“Rajesh!”
She reached over and slapped my arm, sharp but playful.
“What kind of question is that?”
I laughed under my breath. She slapped my arm again, then my shoulder, light and quick.
“Shut up! You are mad.”
“I am only asking,” I said, still smiling. “You were describing it in so much detail. His hands on your white panties, squeezing your boobs from behind… I thought maybe—”
“Thought what?” She hit my thigh this time, half-laughing, half-outraged. “You thought I got horny? From that photographer? Are you hearing yourself?”
She shook her head hard, but her mouth was fighting a smile. She slapped my arm once more, softer.
“You are impossible. Completely impossible. Drive the car before I hit you properly.”
“So that is a no?” I asked, teasing.
“It is a shut up and drive,” she said, turning toward the window, one hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders shook once. A small, embarrassed laugh escaped anyway. “God… what has got into you tonight?”
I started the engine. She kept her face turned away, cheeks still burning, but the smile stayed. The city lights began to move across the glass as I pulled out of the parking, the playful scolding and the unanswered question still warm between us in the car.
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