"So what did you think of him, sister?" she asks as she takes a towel from a basket and begins to dry herself. Her fine blond hair drips and hangs about her bare shoulders.

Her sister who still lies in her sleeping bag stretches. A breast is pulled out into view. Her darkish blond hair spills over the pillow. The sleeping bag is unzipped down the side, a bit of very white leg can be seen. "Oh, maybe a C-. He did try. Did you notice, sister, that he never even took his shoes off? I think that's so rude. Don't you? Is that how we were brought up?"

"I don't think Mother's little talks covered that one, Mary."

Mary laughs, then sighs, "Poor Mother, how she did suffer." After a moment she says, "I do think that next time you should bring back something a little younger."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"I swear, he almost fell asleep on me. And sister, I don't thank you for telling him I'm the unadventurous one. I like to be on top as much as you. What do you suppose he's doing now?"

"Just discovering that's he's missed his meeting by a considerable amount of time," as she speaks she wraps the towel around that wet streaming blond hair.

"Don't you think we were kind of mean to him, sister? He isn't a bad man. He's never been unfaithful before."

"He's never been tempted before," she bends, shifts about in a pile of discarded clothing, and fishes out a pair of panties, "And you know that he has been unfaithful in spirit for some time."

"That's an exaggeration, sister."

"You know it's true, Mary, you know it's true," she speaks intensely even as she steps into the panties and slides them up her slim fine-skinned legs. "He said he woke up early this morning because of all the timezone changes, flying here set him back 3 hours. In fact, he was surfing for pornography until 3 and then was so wound up he woke again at 5."

"Mostly pictures of nudes, sister."

"Mostly, and he justifies it by telling himself he doesn't pay for any of it, only looks at what's free or what someone else's pirated. Well, he got lucky last night."

"I don't think you exactly played fair with him, sister."

"And did he play fair with us?" the girl looks down at her sister almost angrily. "Like it was fair what happened to us?"

"He did pay for it, Em"

"And that matters to us how?"

There is a pause, then, "I do think walking was a commendable way of putting that extra time to use," Mary takes an apologetic mollifying tone. She pushes the sleeping bag down lazily so both her breasts look up at her sister. "Not many would, you know. People do far too little walking these days."

"That's funny coming from you," the girl, Em, bends again, picks up a simple gray skirt and steps into it. It reaches demurely to her knee.

"And sister," Mary stretches her arms above her head so everything down to her navel is revealed, "He hasn't actually hurt anyone."

"He hasn't been tempted there either. Who knows what he'd do if he were."

"That's true."

"Men can be very stupid when they're scared."

"You know, sister, what bothers me most is not knowing he was carrying on with you."

"And I didn't know he was bouncing your bones either, sister."

"Well, we both knew he was married."

"Just engaged at the beginning, sister."

"Did you ever think he was going to drop her?"

There is another pause. Mary rolls on her side and picks at the sleeping bag's lining reflectively. Her sister picks up her bra. Bending, her breasts swing nicely. They aren't as big as Mary's whose tits show to good advantage now, one above the other, almost like lovers.

"Did you fuck him again, sister?" Mary asks wistfully.

"Yes, sister."

"By the tree next to the south field?"

"Yes, though sister, as I've told you, that field is a parking lot now."

Mary frowns. "Yes, yes. It is so disagreeable."

"It's nice that the river is clean enough for swimming again," she picks up her blouse and buttons it up. "I didn't much like going in when it was filthy."

"Loaded with carcinogen's as I pointed out at the time, sister."

"Not that we have to worry about those. It was the turds that bothered me," she tucks the blouse into the skirt. How very trim and attractive she is!

"You're going back to work?"

"Yes sister," she slips her feet into her sandals and bends once more to tighten the straps.

"You don't have to, you know."

"Well, we do like to eat, sister."

"Yes, and I'll admit that we do like our treats. What will you do when the restaurant closes?"

"Get a job with one of the companies up there in the office park, I guess," she unwraps her hair from the towel and begins brushing it. It is so blond it seems to catch all the available light and shine like pale gold.

"Better go you then me," the reclining girl yawns, "You don't feel bad about this one?"

"No," her sister says shortly.

"I guess I don't either," she rolls onto her front. Her back, shoulders, narrowing waist with the rise of her bottom just hidden by the sleeping bag look very entrancing. She crosses her arms above her head. Her skin is so white. Her eyes close lazily, "All that activity has tired me out and left me a little achy, you know where."

"You did give him a ride."

"So did you, sister. Off with you, I want to get back to sleep."

"See you later Mary." Her sister, now dressed, ducks under the low rock and out into the open early summer air.

"Bye Em," the voice is slow low and sleepy, so muffled by the pillow and the plump arm that it can barely be heard.

The man walks on the narrow bit of sidewalk over the bridge. He is tall and graying. He wears a dark gray suit, his shirt is blue, its collar open. His shoes are gleaming black wingtips. He has a large black laptop bag thrown over one shoulder.

The last fifteen minutes have been the worst of the walk. The highway planners clearly never expected anyone to actually use the sidewalks they were forced by law to provide. He'd had to dart across an entrance ramp to the beltway, cross the bridge over the beltway, then dodge across another ramp, then walk along the narrow sidewalk on the bridge over the little river, cars whizzing quite close.

Rush hour is now in full swing. It's so different from when he'd started out, 2 hours earlier, then it had been quiet with almost no cars.

He looks over the railing. The river here is narrow, so narrow it can hardly be called a river, not wide and tidal as it'd been near his hotel. It's flowing here too, he can see white about the rocks where it comes out from under the bridge.

He looks further over where he's been. He can see River St winding for some way. Houses line one side of the street, behind them is the tall cement sound barrier and then the roaring beltway. The brambly river edge boarders the other side of the street. On the opposite bank of the river stands a large Victorian era house, all on its lonesome, surrounded by an asphalt parking lot. The house has evidently been turned into a restaurant and bar. Between the house and the river is a large deck with tables and beyond the deck is a grassy stretch and then the mud of the river bank.

A restaurant employee, a young blond woman, is hosing off the deck. The sun turns the spray from the nozzle into a cone of sparks.

He looks ahead along the road. He still has a bit more nasty walking. He has to cross the four lane highway at a light at what looks to be a very busy intersection. If there's a walk light, it'll probably give him time to get marooned in the middle. Then he has to walk along what will probably be dubious sidewalks past a Ford dealership to River Rd. He glances at his watch. It is still really early. 8 AM. He figures he only has another mile at most to go. His meeting doesn't start until 10. Coming to the end of the bridge he steps over the low guard rail and works his way down the steep grassy slope to the restaurant's parking lot. Toward the end he lets himself go and hits the asphalt running, his feet barely keeping up with gravity's acceleration. He feels exhilarated, like a kid. He skirts the house and the deck and crosses the grass and stands looking at the river.

The noise of the water is barely audible over the roar of the highway. Rocks stick out here and there, one could almost make it across. He'd considered doing that fifteen minutes before. But the opposite bank is brambly and he'd been unsure of the rocks. He'd figured it safer to walk over and around and keep his feet dry. He could've taken his shoes off, he realizes now. It doesn't look very deep. Still, going around was probably wiser.

Surprisingly he feels really good. A night with little sleep and then six miles of walking should have left him at least a bit tired.

"Beautiful day," a voice behind him says.

He turns and is stunned. The woman, the young woman, has turned off the hose and come up beside him. She's blond with clear, almost translucent skin. Her eyes are greenish. The low morning sun is behind him, full on her. She is slim and clean looking.

And, she looks very much like one of the pair of women captured in a set of pictures he'd stumbled upon the night before in his hotel room. He remembers one shot of two young women on the steps of a white sided church, both wearing blue and white checked gingham dresses, white socks and flat laced leather shoes. The resemblance of one of them to this girl leaves him breathless. Her skin has just the same crystal cleanness and shown just as warmly in the sun. He longs to reach out and touch her bare arm.

The faces are so similar. He remembers one of the close-ups in the set, showing just the bright green eyes, flecked with gray, the arching eyebrows, the perfect nose, the halo of blond hair. If he leaned forward so she was close enough to kiss, she would look just the same. He feels himself becoming lost in her eyes, in the half amused tilt of her lips as she watches him.

He takes a breath and pulls his eyes away. He feels he has to say something so he says, "You don't mind if I stand here a minute?"

"Me? No."

After this momentous bit of conversation he is at a loss, helpless. He cannot in fact remember ever being this close to such a pretty girl. And some of the pictures in the set cause him to flush, the shot of her lookalike's beautiful cheeks bulging around the man's cock, her lovely face distorted and hungry, her fingers clutching the thick base. He'd been so tired when he'd looked at that shot, it'd affected him like a nightmare. And he cannot help imagining this girl down on him, how she would look, all he'd able to see would be her riot of blond hair, and how her warm mouth and tongue and lips and fingers would feel.

The girl says, "I saw you walk along the other side."

"Know where I started?" he asks, hoping to interest her and bring himself back to sanity at the same time.

"No?"

"Down in Lincoln Sq. I stayed at the Marriott there."

"That's quite a ways."

"About six miles."

"You walked all that?"

"Yeah, you see I flew in last night and jet lag's robbed me of 3 hours. For some reason I just couldn't sleep past 5. I have meetings at a company whose offices are maybe a mile up that way. I looked at a map and saw that the river pretty much goes from where I was to where I wanted to be and that there were streets running along it pretty much the whole way. I've only had to dodge away from the river twice."

"It sounds nice."

"Yup. Most of it. At the beginning the river was really wide and there were these abandoned warehouses along the road. I've often thought that it's as interesting looking at the things that people have built and made as natural things. You know? Why should a flower be nicer to look at than an old McDonald's cup?

"Don't know, it just is."

"But why? If you think about it, the cup is the result of someone's design and someone else's use. It should be more attractive than something that's just happened by chance and is mostly interested in suckering bugs."

She laughs.

"Sorry for running on so," he says, "I've been thinking about that as I walked along. Especially when I came to a particularly litter intensive stretch. Though that wasn't all I thought of, I'm giving this presentation this morning, I ran through that in my mind a good bit."

"Loser," he thinks to himself.

He feels hopelessly stupid, she is so pretty. He is intensely aware of her bare arms, the rise of her breasts, her bare midriff, he wants his hands on her waist. He has seen her, well seen someone as like as her clone almost, sit and kneel over her lover, a serious eager expectant expression on her face, take him and guide him so the tip of his cock slips against her fine downy pubic hair and start him on his way into her.

"Why don't you sit down," she waves at the deck. The chairs are upside down on the tables. "You must be tired."

"Not as much as I'd expected," he takes a chair and sets it on the deck. He hesitates, looking at her.

"Sure," she says.

She takes out a cigarette and lights it. She sits beside him and stretches her long jeaned legs. The sun shines on her sandaled feet, he sees that they glisten a bit, wet from the hose. She sees his look of surprise at the cigarette and laughs. "Tell me," she says, "Do you know any old people? Are you friends with any old people?"

"Outside of my mother?" He feels absurdly glad that she doesn't count him as old. "Like you have or want a chance," he thinks to himself. He figures he must be 20 years her senior.

"Outside of your mother."

"No."

"Neither do I, if you met yourself as an old person do you think you'd be friends?"

"Probably not."

"Chances are you couldn't stand yourself. You'd have completely different interests, a completely different outlook. You'd think, here's another old person I can't be bothered with, screw him. You'd get stuck behind yourself on the road and the stupid slow careful way you drive would drive you crazy. You'd blow your horn and whip around yourself. I figure any old lady who has lung cancer because I smoke now is a stranger to me. I shouldn't do as I like now because of a stranger?"

He tries to collect his thoughts. She misinterpreted his look when she lit the cigarette. He's never seen anyone smoke as she does. She smokes like women must've smoked long ago, with pleasure, with a knowledge that she looks good doing it, and regardless of her words, with no consciousness of ill. One of the shots showed her lookalike stretched on her side on a patch of grass, so naked, the man, large and burly in comparison to her slimness, sits beside her, his chest bare, his pants on, but unbuttoned, he is handing her a lit cigarette which they are sharing. Beyond them is a creek, it's water flashing in the sun, showing reflections of the wild roses on its further bank.

He thinks, "I must be going." She is so pretty though and he is so stirred. He thinks that there can be no harm in relaxing. Again, what chance does he have with such a creature?

"I bet you're thirsty," she says.

"I have water here," he reaches for his bag.

"How about a beer?"

"I wouldn't want you to get in trouble."

"Oh, I always have one after I finish setting up the deck. I figure it's a perk. It's not like I get paid much. I'll be back in a second."

The set he'd found and now can't get out of his head was entitled "The Two Sisters". He'd been lieing on the hotel bed. His laptop open beside him. His head hurt from lack of sleep and the lateness of the hour, he'd felt a feverish sense that he was being stupid and that he should turn out the light. The meetings he has to go to, the presentation he has to give, made him feel guilty and desperate. He will hardly be at his best!

He would've gotten to sleep early but he'd gotten a call from his wife. He heard her voice and he heard the shouting and his heart'd sunk. He couldn't even figure out what they were all fighting about, his wife, his son and his daughter. How often does he get out of his car in the garage, walk up the steps to the kitchen and hear that shouting and want to just turn around and vanish! At least at work, though people aren't more rational, they do follow minimum standards of decorum, he can pretend the fights aren't there. At home, it's gouge the eyes, hit below the belt, especially after proclaiming a truce.

Somehow the fight died down, he heard someone stomping off in a rage. His wife then complained about how much he traveled, she complained about how uninvolved he is, she complained about his son's teacher, complained about her boss. She complained about the rain. Then she'd said good night and hung up.

He'd reopened his laptop and started surfing through images of young beauty. They were undemanding and swallowed his mind. There was always the chance of getting lucky and finding something special, something satisfying, something he could look at again and again, something that would let him imagine the possibility of a perfect life at least for someone.

He'd told himself, just one more search. When that didn't turn up anything, he told himself, just one more search.

At some point, in the results, a link caught his eye, the fourth down. It's url started with a sequence of digits, not some dreamlike name. He'd clicked it and there was an index of hundreds of thumbnails, cascading and reshuffling on the page as they came crowding out. It was the first of 5 such pages, there were little blue linked numbers at the top of the page, above the thumbnails. He'd clicked on the first thumbnail and there stood the two sisters, in the sun, on the church steps, the resolution so high he felt he could reach through the screen and touch them. They almost looked like if they turned they would see him.

He'd stared at the shot for some time, relishing how beautiful the two young women were. The sister, the other girl, is a little shorter, a little rounder, and her breasts, discreet and subdued under her cotton dress, are larger. Her hair is a darker shade of blond, if the sun wasn't on it it might've been brown. Her eyes are brown too, and don't show the same spirit.

Behind them coming down the church steps is a couple, a large square forbidding young man and a decidedly plain looking maybe older young woman, overdressed to compensate for her lack of bloom.

"Here you go," a beer is set on the table, the bottle has a harpoon on its label, "I'm Emily," she says, extending a hand. He shakes it. Hers is dry and soft. He wishes he could hang onto it.

"Sam," he says, "Sam Welton. And thanks."

"So what do you remember best from your hike?"

He thinks a minute, grateful to her for giving him something to talk about, then says, "Lots of things. There was the sun just rising behind the buildings of the city when I got to the river. It's really wide down there. You could still just look at it, the sun, in longish glances. It cast a wide path on the water.

"A little further along it was really trashy. There were warehouses, mostly abandoned I think. There was this tire in the dirt by the street. Growing up through it was some kind of a lily, it's flower had just the prettiest orange petals.

"Then after the warehouses the street went between a cemetery and the river. The cemetery was more like a garden, flowering trees and bushes. The song birds were raising a fuss in the leaves. I saw a muskrat, ducks and geese. And several dead fish. I saw a heron stalking along the bank and saw it stab a frog. There were so many lilacs along the cemetery fence that the air was filled with their scent, I'd forgotten that air could actually smell good.

"I thought about how you have to be dead before you can stay in such surroundings."

She laughs. He looks at her. As if to explain, she says, "How does that square with your idea that trash is beautiful?"

"Oh, it doesn't," he is going to stop, but then goes on in a rush, "Then I got over there," he waves across at the river, "And looked over here and saw you. The water from the hose just glistened in the sun. That big white house looked like some rich person's home, you can't really see the parking lot or the sign from there. And I thought if I could just hold that image in my head I'd be happy forever."

She takes a sip of her beer, then reaches over and lays her hand on his.

That hand feels like it's electrified.

Of course he can't mention how much he'd thought of that set of photos as he walked.

Just before waking he'd been trapped in a confused dream. There he'd been, standing in front of a roomful of people from that oh so important customer, instead of a screenshot of the potential interface, the overhead shows a picture of the front of that church, the two sisters both lean forward, looking up at that handsome looming fellow. The woman beside the guy is clearly not so happy to be in the company of such beauties. You can see hard lines etched at the corners of her eyes.

He frantically pounds the space bar. The next slide shows the shorter and rounder sister, the not-Emily-lookalike, talking to the man. They stand on the bank of a brook. Behind them is a thin edge of trees, behind that, up a steep bank, is thick tall corn. They are cut off, alone.

The clicks now take place on their own, they're sharp and loud. He wants to move his hand to shut down Powerpoint, to slam the laptop lid, but is curiously unable to move.

There the two are kissing, first standing, then sitting, leaning against a broad tree with multiple trunks that stretch out over the water. There she is with her dress unbuttoned in front, her bra on the grass beside her. Her breasts are so full, the man's hand is under one, he bends to kiss it. There she is on her back, her dress thrown over her chest, her underwear on the grass next to the bra, one arm over her eyes the other stretched to the side, the man is between those so white thighs, half in. There she is, head on his chest, as he leans back against the tree trunk, smoking a cigarette, tears flow down her cheeks.

At this point he'd managed to break away and start up staring and sweating in the hotel bed. He'd been unwilling to lie back. He'd stood up and looked out the window at the brightening eastern sky. Streetlights were still on below the hotel window in the morning half-light. He'd looked at the broad river. Then in a lurch of activity he'd checked Mapquest, saving several pages so he could refer to them when not connected. Next he'd hurriedly packed his stuff. It all fit in the shoulder bag with the computer, he despised checking baggage on airplanes. Then he'd checked out of the hotel and hurried out into the cool fresh 5AM air.

"I need to be going," he forces himself to say. He feels he's standing on an edge, looking down into fog. He realizes he's going to jump. "Look," he says, "My meetings are over at 4. My flight's not till 8. Would you like to meet for a drink?"

He thinks suddenly that she may not be 21. He wants her to say no, to say she's busy.

"Where are these meetings?" she asks, her fingers idly caress the back of his hand. They lightly brush his ring.

"1048 River Rd. It's on the other side of that mess up there and then about a mile."

"1048 River Rd," she repeats, "I'll meet you at 4 then. Now, I'll show you a short cut. It'll save you twenty minutes at least."

She stands, "Finish your beer, I'll run the bottles in and be right back, don't want them sitting out here."

He tips the bottle, it's still more than half full. He drinks and feels it hit his stomach, the only thing he's had that day is coffee and a pastry from a Starbucks on a corner. He can feel the beer in his head. He watches her walk quickly up to the restaurant, the sun shining on her white blouse, on her pale hair, on her swaying bottom. He feels he's dropped behind an event horizon, into a never ending moment, separated from all cause or consequence.

This girl's lookalike is more forward than her sister. After their first encounter, she sits sweet and naked on the guy's lap, sharing a cigarette. When he guides her head down toward his cock, she doesn't slap him as does her sister, she takes it with every expression of curious eagerness. Not all the images of them fucking are with him on top, his broad muscular frame hiding everything but her splayed thighs. As often, she is on him, sitting facing him or with her back to him, her fingers touching herself.

"Hey!" She has suddenly returned, "Can't have you falling asleep!"

She leads the way down to the river's edge and turns along it. There is a slight edge of gravely dried mud by the water. He hesitates.

"You can keep your feet dry," she says reassuringly. "It hasn't rained in a couple weeks and there're only a couple places you'll have to jump."

Not far from where they stand the stream comes out from under the bridge he'd crossed earlier. The opening is square and barely head high. It is very dark. The noise of the traffic seems to swell like a suddenly disturbed hornets nest.

He starts to draw back.

She steps to him, tilts her face up. He bends and kisses her. Her lips are warm, soft and taste of beer. The world seems to close in around him, enclosing him in a bubble with her face. She steps back, smiles, touches his arm and moves along the edge. Her sandals are the kind that can get wet, she steps confidently and quickly, splashing. He follows more carefully. He has to jump in more than a couple places and sometimes the mud is yielding. He's going to have to clean his shoes. He has to find someplace to tie his tie anyhow.

Under the bridge the going suddenly gets easy. There is a concrete shelf along the side to walk on. It is dark and the noise is oppressively loud. Cars and trucks above groan and whine and roar. The structure seems to shudder. The air stinks of chemicals, dirt, oil and rubber. He can't help think of the last pictures of the set, he'd only glanced at them they were so horrible, but in air that's foul to breath, it's hard to push them back.

Suddenly she is against him. She's stopped and he hasn't seen. Her arms are around him, her face in the dim light waits, he bends and they kiss, her tongue pushes through his lips, he puts his hand on her bare waist, it feels amazing. He hesitates to move. Her hands are exploring his back under his coat, it is almost as if they are directly on his skin. He lets his hands roam over her tight ass, she pushes her hips against him. He is so excited. He wonders how this can be happening.

"I am lost," he thinks.

She pulls away from him. Her hand brushes the fly of his pants. He wants it to stay but she has turned and is moving along. The bright opening is not far ahead. The sun makes the stream gleam. He climbs a low grassy bank and stands on a flat grassy spot, trees and brush surround the clearing except where a narrow path leads off. The river here is slower, a little further he sees it bend, with a deeper pool at the bend, maybe deep enough to swim a body length in. There is a large tree with several thick trunks, one reaching over the stream. The road noises recede, almost fading to nothing. There is a relaxing sense of unchanged nature.

The path leads straight to a steep embankment, lined with heaped boulders and concrete blocks. At the top of the embankment is a low wooden guard rail. He can see a couple parked cars up there, their headlights staring sightlessly down.

"That's an office park," she waves, "boarders River Rd. Your building may be in there or in the next mess of office buildings. They're up a hill. There's a killer view of the river and the city from there."

She stands relaxed, watching him. He barely feels he has a choice. He steps and embraces her. He is filled with need. He pushes his hand up under blouse, over her warm silky skin, he feels a breast through her bra.

She pushes him away and quickly unbuttons her blouse and wriggles her bra over her head and stands bare from the waist up. Her breasts are small and delicate. The bones about her throat and shoulders are thin and almost birdlike. He cannot take his eyes off her.

"If you have time and aren't so particular," she says, "there's someplace we can be comfortable, it's not far."

He is so hungry he would take her on the grass. He follows her along the path, her blouse and bra swinging from one hand. She carelessly swats them at some weeds that line the path. Before coming to the embankment and the parking lot she turns and after a few yards they come back to the river. They're where the stream turns along a natural rocky little hill, maybe glacial. The eddying pool, with the tree trunk reflected lazily on the water, is right there. Two steps up the hill is a cave.

She turns and kisses him again. His peripheral vision sees her tender nipples brushing against his shirt. He feels them against his chest. She takes both his hands and leads him in. He has to duck.

The space enlarges so that he can stand, his hair brushing the rock of the ceiling. She takes one step to the left and sits on what he sees is an air mattress covered by a sleeping bag and sheets. Behind the pillow is a plastic cooler. On the cooler is a battery powered LLBean camping lantern, turned off, the dim light is all green leaf filtered morning light flowing through the entrance. And, for him, from her face.