The only sensation in her was of absorption. The heat; the hard, sure heat under her. The leather of her new red shoes, leather tanned soft as fruit skin, holding her foot, wrapped all the way around it, to her ankle, where it was loose and gentle. The sound of the grasses, whispering. Soft as voices, safer than words, asking nothing of her but to hear them.
Soft as fruit skin? Where I came up with that, I have no idea; still I can feel it.
I hated my own red leather shoes. Is it that, that has me writing about a queer little girl, loving nothing more ... ?