Mulled Vine

It was so unusual to see a female hitchhiker along the little country road on my daily commute to Penshurst that against my better judgement I stopped and offered her a lift. She looked at me appraisingly for a moment, wondering perhaps whether this suited, pot-belly of a man was any sort of threat, but then got in, having been won over by my engaging smile no doubt. She must have been around twenty or so, a beautiful, pale young girl in fashionably torn denim and a T-shirt that reminded me of dusky sunsets, but it was her eyes that struck me most, dazzling me with an emerald, almost snake-like intensity.

“Where would you like to go?” I asked, wrenching my eyes away.

She looked at me for a long time without speaking, and then smiling coyly, dragged a gentle finger slowly along the inside of my thigh and replied, “Where is the wind blowing today, stranger?”

I wasn’t sure whether I or the SatNav could answer that, but threw caution and my dull briefcase to the wind and drove off.