She wanted to caress that bicep.
It didn’t really matter if the world was already tilting away from her fingers, or that the chilly air couldn’t cool down her warm face. It didn’t matter that on the other side of the park from where they sat was a young couple, probably no more older than eighteen, sitting hand in hand, with the girl leaning her head upon the boy’s right shoulder.
It took one phone call, a decision made a whim, and Saffron found themselves sitting beside Luke with a can of beer in hand. Or make that plural, if the multiple cans scattered around their bench was any indication of how far they’d gone on their alcoholic spree. But these didn’t matter anymore; Saffron belatedly realized as she gripped her can tightly.
What really mattered began with one stray thought that sent red lights blaring in her head, but sent warm tingles down her arm to her fingertips, paralyzing her mind and body: I want to touch that bicep.
It didn’t matter if Luke had just broken off with his girlfriend, that he was mourning and chugging down beer half his own weight. This thought alone had managed to bash into her retinas and refused to let her eyes stray away from the provoking skin. Said skin was half a shade lighter than the rest of his arm, once hidden safely away under his t-shirt sleeves.
Saffron wished he hadn’t drunk so much that he felt too warm and had to roll his sleeves up. She really wished he could just take that shirt off.
She eyed the curve of the muscle, how it bulged when he flexed the muscles, how the skin would feel if she traced it with her fingertips. Would it feel smooth? Warm from his body heat? Would the skin goosebump if she dragged her finger across it? Would he let out a ragged breath, would it remind him of her girlfriend doing the same? Would she find it repulsive? Would he find it repulsive?
Her fingertips itched, the feeling of a thousand needles prickling into the sensitive skin that sent her brainwaves into disarray. There was a heaving feeling in her left arm, suddenly, pulling and dragging her arm into action.
The soft hiss of air from a can interrupted her traitorous thoughts. Luke was popping open another beer, (I really should stop him).
A tiny voice of reason reminded her that she was on a road of no return, but the inebriated part of her brain warbled happily, insidiously about how thinking but not acting on it are entirely different.
Saffron wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings anymore. She realized her left arm had lifted upon its own accord, hand reaching towards that god-damnable bicep. Touch! She had done it! She touched it! Heat radiated from his arm, just like she had imagined, trickling down to her own fingertips, right up her arm and to her brain, where all her nerves burst like fireworks on New Years Eve. Brainwaves probably could wreck the Richter scale.
“What izzit?” Luke slurred, blinking owlishly, head tilted towards her in a confused manner, and can of beer mid-way to his lips. If Saffron hadn’t been so horrified and conflicted, she would have laughed in his face.
Instead, talking in a manner that didn’t reflect her turbulent thoughts, Saffron said quietly, “You really should stop drinking”.
Saffron silently applauded her bullshit reflex. The couple across them was kissing.