Black over pink

Spring seems close here in New York, slowly strolling through Central Park arm in arm with S. We're wearing dark sunglasses, short skirts and high heels, another sort of wind close to the skin. I can tell how S is waking up, she likes it when men turn their heads to look at us, commenting on our hair and clothes, running their wanting eyes up our legs. Her childish innocence is starting to evaporate, I'm more used to the feeling.

Neither of us had dates for Valentine's so we spent it together in the bar at the Marriott drinking Cherry Blossoms. Later on my mother's bed with a pink box of luxury chocolates, S in her new Victoria's Secret underwear, me in a navy blue Margaret Howell men's shirt. Doesn't she look beautiful?