Many thanks to neuroparenthetical, who edited this story.

Mid-afternoon, I was walking with my new girlfriend toward her place. She lived in a ten-story tower on the mountainside. I’d always liked that part of town — maybe because I wasn’t there often, or maybe because it felt like a world apart. It was working-class and a bit rough around the edges, but the upside was the quiet: the narrow, winding streets climbing the slope simply didn’t allow for much traffic.

Most residents lived in apartment blocks similar to hers: clustered together but not packed the way they were along the riverside. Between the buildings lay basketball courts and children’s playgrounds, all of it wrapped in the deep green of the forest spilling down from above.

She was tall and slender-framed. Her cropped dark-blonde hair suited her round face.

Also, she was one of those, though you couldn’t tell — not unless you pissed her off, in which case she made sure you found out.

That day, like most days, she wore a short, strappy dress paired with platform heels and a tiny sequined handbag. The dress hung loosely on her, barely long enough to skim that cheeky little rear of hers, and cut so low that her cleavage seemed always on the verge of slipping into view.

I liked her. I liked her a lot. I liked her fashion sense.

Apparently, so did everyone else. The shows of appreciation were always louder in such a rowdy, city-limits neighborhood, and that afternoon was no exception. As we climbed the steep alley toward her building, the usual chorus of shouts, whistles, cheers, and half-hearted boos followed us up the hill.

Keeping one’s thoughts to oneself simply isn’t a concept that thrives in the tougher parts of town — but then again, that’s part of what made living in the upper town interesting.

The sun was high in the sky, casting sharp shadows from the trees that lined the street. I trailed behind her, taking in the sight of her as she moved. Cheerful as always, she would dart ahead, then spin with a laugh and come back, talking and joking the whole way, putting on a little show for anyone watching. Her dress fluttered around her like a flag on a mast, held in place by mere threads. From behind, her rear was in full view; “upskirting” was polite fiction, as there was little in the way of a skirt. The upper front of her body was exposed to all sides; the top of her dress sagged and slid to one side and even if one were to search for an angle from which neither of her breasts were visible, I don’t think they’d find any. Don’t ask me why anyone would.