He squeezed it firmly like a sponge ball.

The sort children throw at each other in that game when they are eight years old, separated by a bench and initiated by an irritated teacher’s whistle.

She was delighted at the prospect of him having a day-off.

There were bruises at the peaks of two bones that jutted out at the base of her palms.

They were circular and purplish in colour.

He paid no attention to it while she stroked her palms against the base of his penis.

There were two intervals of rain that day.

In the morning, they had left the house to shop for beansprouts.

Along the journey, it began to rain and, unprepared for such calamity, they sought relief in a bus shelter.

He pressed himself against her to keep out the cold.

Or at least, that’s what he told her.

At that point she felt him harden indefinitely.

Now, he was able to squeeze it how he so longed to in the shelter.

He could explore every point of resistance in the flesh of her breast and feel her nipple rise to greet his palm.

The second time it rained, they were stuck in a coffee shop.

He disliked the taste of coffee so naturally, whenever they’d visit such places, he amused himself with large bottles of Lipton iced tea and imagined how it would feel to pour it all over her blouse.

How her nipples would stick out as little angry swords, pointing rudely at him and cursing wildly.

He felt a cold, plastic object slide up his calf.

She smiled imperceptibly.

Her shoe moved to his belt buckle and the metatarsal of her foot squeezed against his bulge.

They cooked the beansprouts in a spicy sauce.

Fusion, she called it.