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Ignoring my growing embarrassment (which wasn't the only thing still growing) he sat down on a low rock and pulled off his boots. I heard a sharp click as the buckle of his belt hit the rock as he slipped his jeans down his long legs. Like many experienced male riders, I could see that he was wearing a jockstrap under his shorts, which, much to my disappointment, he kept on as he made his way gingerly down the stony bank and into the cool water. He plunged forward, his long hair floating behind him on the surface and water droplets sparkling on his brown back. He wasn't a great swimmer and after a few minutes he made his way towards the bank. I watched keenly as he stood up in the shallows, silvery trails of water trickling down his arms and chest. Dam' that jockstrap, I thought as I tried to imagine what lay hidden in that well-filled black pouch. He waded out onto the bank, wringing the water from his hair and lay down beside me. Was that just a little too close? I thought. As if that wasn't enough, she had to go for long walks too, filthy, both in her clothing and her hygiene. He feared that someone at his school would see her in that state. He knew the fear was baseless because no one had ever met his mother. So there was no way they would be able to connect the shabby woman to him. But still, the fear lay inside, nagging.Suddenly he stumbled on a raised joint in the sidewalk and he woke up. Till now he had been wandering almost in trance. He noticed that he was carrying something in his hand and he lifted it so he could see it. It was a long, sharp pair of scissors. How he had got his jacket on with them in his hand he couldn't understand. Obviously he had managed. Again he shuddered, this time not from the cold, but from the memories. He looked around for somewhere to throw them away and saw the storm drain. He stopped long enough to slide the scissors between the grates and let go of them, he listened for the sound of them hitting bottom but heard.
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