He is wearing his battered work trousers, slung low on his narrow hips. He smells of springtime; green leaves, dry bark.
I am in my secretarial garb; knee-length blue pencil dress, top knot, glasses.
He pulls me towards him, kissing me roughly, hungrily. My fingers explore his hair, strewn with woodchips. He bends me over the table, pulling my skirt up over my stockings.
The prim lady undone by the scruffy woodsman.