The couple are both attractive in their mid 20's. The girl has long, straight black hair. She is dressed in all black. Her open toed stilettos expose bright painted nails. Her low cut shirt shows off her huge breasts.
Her giant breasts slosh around for several seconds after any sudden movement from her like two of those slinky toys we had in childhood got trapped in them.
The breasts must be full of milk. I imagine myself as her dairy farmer milking them every morning. I would be an early riser. I wake from my cold bed, run to the barn, and grab my stool, and get to work squishing drops of milk from her nipples into my pan.
I think it would be a wonderful life.
"I can think of times when a man has to commit murder. In cases of self-defense. At times of war. If one were an executioner." The girl in her mid-twenties says.
"But I can't see why a man would ever have to rape. Which is why I think, between the two, rape is by far the worse of the crimes." She finishes.
"But what about times of rapist self-defense?" I interrupt.
The pair look over at me quizzically. They must wonder how I managed to overhear their conversation. I point out that my headphones, while in my ears, where not plugged into my phone.
"Excuse me." The girl blinks at me. Her voice is quivering. She must get nervous during debates.
"Like you know, if the chick is like a really hot chick, and she is walking alone down a dark alley- asking for it."
I think I am starting to get the hang of this debate thing.
"What's a guy to do?" I ask.
My attention is diverted from the couple by a young girl who walks into the pizza parlor. She is wearing boots. In a cliche of teen girl hottness she is also wearing tight jeans that show off her nice bum.
Her nails trace a path on my table as she walks past me. Each nail is painted a different color. Neon green, neon orange, black, purple. Her wrists have several of those multi colored friendship bracelets on.
She sits to the table directly across from me. She runs her hands through all of the long hair and crosses her legs. She looks at me like she is daring me to do something.
"That girl can't be more than 14." The woman with the Bank Of America name tag says to me.
I have to manually close my jaw.
"You think?" I ask, my voice much too high with excitement.
The woman's voice next to me is trying to get my attention back, but my eyes can't seem to move away from the young girl who is now fingering the buttons on her shirt.
"Can you believe that?" The man next to me is suddenly awake and laughing. His elbow reaches out to knock against mine. His lunch companion utters a few vocal grunts of disgust.
"I know." I admire. "This place is awesome!"
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