She is in the eighth row back from the stage watching the band. Listening to the band. It’s early afternoon and everything has really got going now. The queue for coffee is slackening off and the queue at the bar is getting longer. She has a cider, and why not. It’s a festival. There are sausage sandwiches and gozleme. There are kids running around the tent poles and teenagers and an old couple dancing up the front and a guy with hair like Michael Bolton. The cider is cold, the sound is good, and it’s so hot she takes her socks off surreptitiously. Michael Bolton turns at the precise moment she’s doing this, their eyes meet and then his travel down to her still hot bare feet. She flushes and the heat travels to her cheeks. She doesn’t fancy Michael Bolton at all, not a bit of it, but she feels caught out and kind of awkward. Suck back on the cider, love. Michael Bolton so doesn’t mind.

Cannylass

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