He had seen her in this position many times, but never from this angle. It was just as satisfying, but different. Her apartment was on the second floor, and was built in the early eighties, long before she was born. The floors were different here than in most places. He knew from experience that her apartment was slanted. The walls all pitched forward and sideways toward the furthest corner in the place – the back right corner of her bedroom. As someone with an architectural background it frustrated him that he could never quite determine if this was because her apartment complex had been built long ago or if it was because it was built on a hill. Either way it didn’t make much sense, but he wasn’t arguing about it today. For all intent and purposes she was on the second floor, but the back entrance, the entrance closer to her apartment was flush with the ground.

He watched as the top of her head bobbed up and down with the movement of her hips and arm. The top of her lower back rising up more and more as her head pushed further down into her bed. She didn’t masturbate every morning, just like he didn’t usually have jobs us this way. When he did, he liked to stop by. She how looked, if she still had some of the same morning habits or if those had changed over the course of time as well. Her hair color had changed. It was darker now, but so was the weather. It was colder, in color and temperature. In the summer her hair was lighter and warmer, like the sun and the sand at the beach. She was growing it back out. He liked where it was at though. Whatever guy she was seeing now should tell her to keep it like this. Hippies died out in the 70s, and unless she had become a storybook character or identified with another culture she didn’t to keep her hair as long as she wished.

It did look good though, her hair. Spilling forward. Covering her face whenever she picked her head up to adjust the position of her arm. He knew she would be done soon. Other than their sexual history he knew she couldn’t be late for anything. That was something that was never going to change. Looking at his watch, they both at 13 minutes until the hour. He would have to leave to grab coffee and be onsite; she would have to finish and then go get ready for work to leave her house. Both kept 8:30 as a marker. For a moment, he felt wistful, as if everything had panned out he would be there, behind her now instead of watching her replicate himself with her fingers. They would come together and then he would rush out the door to make it on time. Nine minutes had passed. Her body was shaking, her movements were hurried. Pulling out his phone he recorded her last few moments of pleasure. Something to relieve until his next onsite visit around here. Spent, she laid down flat on her bed. Disappearing from his line of vision over the windowsill. He watched as she stretched, various body parts – her arm, her leg, even the flipping over of her hair – displayed themselves. Reluctantly he dragged his feet away, bringing him back toward his car. The parking lot was still relatively quiet. He had six minutes. Watching her, craving to be back inside, he could finish and still have time to stop for coffee before getting to work. Closing his car door, he began his own countdown.

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