Petal was distracting. She was twenty three years old, her fair hair fell down her back and her freckles became more intense in the burning Tampa sun. She liked glittery make up and clothes that would make a celibate priest hot under his thick and constrictive collar. I liked to watch her drink things, she'd suck gently on her straw, her eyes flicking up suggestively, scorching right through me and forcing me to think of cricket and cars until the imagery she'd planted in my head had gone away. She was playful, especially with my hair, she'd often stroke it gently as I tried to pin her, my body rebelling under her touch as her laughter rang out through the empty arena, until I fell down next to her, pulling my shirt down to cover my hunger for her. "You're impossible." I would tell her as she sat up, her curls cascading down her back, covering a small scar I longed to trace. I think she got it when she was just a girl, she says she fell off the swings a lot, I imagined I was a little boy, running to her to dry her tears before I carried her across the park and back home. She would turn to me, holding her bare, beautiful legs close to her chest and frown. "Am I?" I would shake my head as I stood, pulling her from the floor, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms and kiss her. She smiled at me and I let go of her hand, smiling too. My body twitched, desperate, as I smiled at her quiet mumble of thanks and watched her exit the ring to a crowd of admirers, ready to do what I was probably too old for. The aching was constant, I would watch them fawn over her every day, my heart and the body that encased it begging me to be like them. I knew her body would look utterly divine on my own, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't escape my constant fantasising. In my head, she was Petal, because her real name was far too innocent for my intentions, but one day, for one moment, I'd say it, and it would feel right. Filthy, but right.