An Infringement upon Dreaming Spires

George rides his solitary bike,
eyes alit for potholes.
Mind awash with other obstacles
cloying his attention:
This morning's toast delivered with a message.

Up on Bruntsfield rise,
the grass - a dog dirt riddled sargasso sea
where generations of students gather in June.
 
Each hollow, a pocket,
an intervalled story of lust and sausage:
Charcoaled appetites;
sunshine fucking.
George pauses to squint
as his mobile vibrates
the message from her...
a smiley face,
then a 'K?!'
The fuck does she mean?

There are games he did not want to play; games he finds himself playing. Games she said she wouldn't. Children's games that lose their fun.

Last night
she punched his jaw,
then apologised
with gobular oral delight, white webs of stringy succulence,
dripped from her jaw.
 
His balls
thumping in a cotton sack,
trapped like they were.
Unable to contemplate another life:
last Summer;
Different swipe every night.
When all he had to fear
was loneliness and reflection; or an encounter
with another 'her'.

A truck honks and shatters his thought.
He jumps and startled
lifts his bicycle onto the kerb.
 
The truck drives off on pneumatic release
over the horizon.
The phone rings.
Down it her voice, forgiving
his morning distance;
where there should be nothing to forgive.

They talk again and decide a new tack.
George cycles on, to visit a friend.