She did not reply. She did not delete it. She simply let the water cool around her until the fifteen minutes ended, then pulled the plug, dried off, and put the grey dress back on.
She bent. The wood was warm from the sun, the grain rough against her palms. She watched a mallard dive and surface, shake water from its emerald head. Behind her, the man unzipped his trousers. She counted the seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. A grunt. A rustle of fabric.
“There,” he said, zipping up. “You can get up now.” freeuse freya parker
The park was crowded with late-afternoon light. She chose a bench near the pond, hoping the ducks might distract her. But the bench was already occupied by a man in a windbreaker, eating a sandwich from a paper bag.
“You’re Freeuse Freya,” he said. Not a question. She did not reply
“Thank you,” her mother said, already returning to her tablet. “You can finish your breakfast.”
She exhaled, sat up, and pulled a plain grey dress over her head. No zippers, no buttons. Just a drop of fabric that obeyed the house rules: availability without obstruction. She bent
Freya sat back down. She underlined the sentence again. Then she packed her bag and left.