They curled and coiled against each other in the shadow of the footbridge. He was pressed and immaculate, the facade of well-to-do. She was succubus-temptress Whore of Babylon. They stroked and caressed, whispering hollow promises and sweet little lies. Soft kisses, bumps and grindings in the summer grass. Animals in heat.
I looked away. It was possible they were going to fuck right there. My monkey watching, what a friend once called; life voyeurism, has its limits.
The shouted monkey howl threats of the boyfriend/husband/significant other caught my attention. She ran to this thick-necked working-joe male, trying to assuage his wraith, whilst her well-pressed lover looked on in wrinkled shock.
They argued, their voices echoing across the canal. I wondered why the girl thought it was right to seduce the well-pressed professional boy, who promptly evaporated into masturbation fantasy mist. He knew better than to stick around.
I wondered why the thick-necked male didn't want to beat her ass. Folk wisdom states it takes two to tango, and she was in no way forced into the situation. The social construct of reality, saying it's not right to hit a girl, hardly seemed relevant.
This little bit of dysfunctional romance love/hate was almost worthy of popcorn. A little comedy/drama/tragedy/irony of the human affliction. It's said all the world's a stage, and this was a quickie one-act improvisation late matinee for my savage amusement. An episode played before my waxmoon reptile eyes, showcasing another side of the cosmic coin of what love, or maybe just blind animal lust, really is all about.