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Zebra Stripes and Busy Streets Tue Mar 22, 2011 6:46 pm
Guest
Guest
At a busy Palm Beach intersection
on a humid Gold Coast afternoon, a light wind was blowing as cars and utes
waited, panting and breathless under the glaring sun. I sat idling astride my
old red K100RS, an appointment and the details of it in the fore of my mind, my
dark helmet visor pulled down against the heat and bright, mid-day light.
The lights for pedestrians illuminated green as one smartly dressed young woman
pushed past the milling crowd of young surfies with their boards, office people
in suits, and tradies in fluoro. Into the crosswalk she strode wearing spiky
high heels at the pointy end of her lithe limbre limbs, her athletic frame draped
in sheer, clinging fabric that left little to the imagination.
She knew how to take long easy strides, her arms swaying in rhythm, her hips swiveling
gently, her fine chin slightly upturned, highlighted blonde hair blew across
her pretty face, and she didn’t brush it away, a self-conscious protection
against the not-so obvious stares from behind glistening windscreens. My good
eye watched traffic and the lights whilst my other eye was entranced by the
scene unfolding before me. I confess to a brief moment of loneliness.
Halfway across the zebra striped crosswalk her left stiletto heel let go
sideways in a wide crack in the bitumen, time slowed, motionless for a fraction
of a second, then all was silent as she fell flat on her tanned face, slender fingers splayed and hands upturned in
protection, but no match for the force of her body contacting the hot tarmac.
The worst (or best) part was that that breeze I mentioned blew that filmy dress
right up round her midriff, exposing for all the world to see that she preferred
the Brazilian look, and with no panties.
When in that moment the lights turned to green, I released the motorbike's clutch
lever and rolled away, not entirely sure whether I felt pity for her or not.
A concerned crowd raced towards her, but I reckoned that'd only make things
worse.
on a humid Gold Coast afternoon, a light wind was blowing as cars and utes
waited, panting and breathless under the glaring sun. I sat idling astride my
old red K100RS, an appointment and the details of it in the fore of my mind, my
dark helmet visor pulled down against the heat and bright, mid-day light.
The lights for pedestrians illuminated green as one smartly dressed young woman
pushed past the milling crowd of young surfies with their boards, office people
in suits, and tradies in fluoro. Into the crosswalk she strode wearing spiky
high heels at the pointy end of her lithe limbre limbs, her athletic frame draped
in sheer, clinging fabric that left little to the imagination.
She knew how to take long easy strides, her arms swaying in rhythm, her hips swiveling
gently, her fine chin slightly upturned, highlighted blonde hair blew across
her pretty face, and she didn’t brush it away, a self-conscious protection
against the not-so obvious stares from behind glistening windscreens. My good
eye watched traffic and the lights whilst my other eye was entranced by the
scene unfolding before me. I confess to a brief moment of loneliness.
Halfway across the zebra striped crosswalk her left stiletto heel let go
sideways in a wide crack in the bitumen, time slowed, motionless for a fraction
of a second, then all was silent as she fell flat on her tanned face, slender fingers splayed and hands upturned in
protection, but no match for the force of her body contacting the hot tarmac.
The worst (or best) part was that that breeze I mentioned blew that filmy dress
right up round her midriff, exposing for all the world to see that she preferred
the Brazilian look, and with no panties.
When in that moment the lights turned to green, I released the motorbike's clutch
lever and rolled away, not entirely sure whether I felt pity for her or not.
A concerned crowd raced towards her, but I reckoned that'd only make things
worse.
