It would, for they understand, that his portrait is as true as possible, he would like to say that she was still crying after. That was what had attracted more than his eyes, more than passion waving his hands over his body swimmer although she hated the smell of public pools. After love, she was crying, quiet tears, on either side of her cheeks, at the end outside of his eyes. He was worried the first time, then he realized that it was at that time, when the tears flowed, she enjoyed.
He had known several women during his adult life, women sometimes feel the need to support their orgasm noises, sounds and words, and spent his early years when he needed evidence to suggest adequate fit to give pleasure, he began to distrust noisy. It was so easy, even Peter had to pretend he began to look for other signs in its partners, more discreet signs. The tremor in one hand behind his back. A sound in the back of the throat. Eyelid opening suddenly. Peter loved to follow the rise and the enjoyment of women he met, but some feared the watchful eyes at a time when they would have desired so absorbed in their bodies than their eyes were lover disturb something.
Their first night could be described as an error. A flirt lift too much alcohol. A bed. Peter and Eva. The mess of clothes thrown behind them as they staggered into the room. The cavalcade of hands, heads may face, moving an arm, a leg, to make room for this other thing, this sudden movement unified. A cry, no, not a cry, a sound came from the bottom of the gorge of Eva, and a deeper panting Peter. Sounds as indistinct as their movements. As concentrated as the sensations.
But it was only after things started, after that first night Peter did not notice anything special about Eva, and Eva did that when she had to do, felt what she felt, and went home at dawn with the number of Peter on his Palm Pilot.
He tells it this way, the handrail on the hot metal banister. Here are some stories now that the feet are struggling in the water coming from sprinklers, as useless as a small tea cup to bail the Titanic. He knows that, while he advances, he knows without seeing something that thousands of sheets of paper flying from the top of Tower, confetti for a Tuesday party.
Eva cried. A tear on either side of her face. He knew how she enjoyed. He repeats that he, Peter Thornbridge, 38, as if a foretaste, he kept it alive, it stayed alive. Steps, one after another, the surf on water levels, the sweat on his back and his hand, the heat of the stairwell. With the enjoyment of Eva, small, very small details that prevent it from shaking down ant, wise and row, while his whole body cried out that he must, out now, without delay. Time is not waiting, and yet that is all Peter is now for 49 minutes.
When stops to let another company of firefighters, Peter reads the safety of a fire extinguisher. As if the prospect of fire eating his body, the average man with the concentration required to integrate the rules for using a fire extinguisher. To measure the distance between itself and fire, aim correctly, press the trigger. Peter asked about the number of fire extinguishers in the tower and wondered if anyone up there, working to attack the fire. He begins to descend.
Strange is not it, in a city like New York where, at rush hour, do not hesitate to push to enter the subway, while that to gain a few minutes to arrive earlier at their destination, strange that someone somewhere expects that thousands of people use the stairwells in a calm way and asked. Apparently yes, if it believes the relative calm with which the feet follow the flow of water now continuous sweeping. One step at a time. Politely. Wisely. A little more, and they would take all by the hand, two by two, singing songs from school.
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