There were children shouting with glee as Livia Cuxena fell upon the road and was hauled sobbing to her feet and thrashed upon her way again, shrieking with wonder at the gyrations of her breasts and bottom. There were youths – and not a few young men – whose hands were moving at their groins as they watched her staggering onwards, howling for pity with all her feminine fullness shaking. Every few hundred yards her legs gave way and she crashed down, unable to protect herself with her hands lashed up behind the heavy beam. She would twist desperately to one side or the other as she fell, trying not to smash her face and breasts directly on the paving of the road, but that could not save her from her falls against the stones. And every time she fell the soldiers pulled her up and the whip lashed in again. Older men strode forward, watching with grim approval the process of justice demonstrating that brigandage would never pay in the new order. Young wives and matrons walked on with. Your company was intoxicating, I felt as if I was breathing you in with each breath, and you were making me high. The dim lights in the bar reflected in your eyes, and because of the few drinks we’d had, I was having difficulty resisting the urge to kiss you. Looking back, I think we were talking more than anyone in the whole room, at least it felt like it. We sat close and shared our lives, it was so easy to talk to you, and I loved hearing about your life. I was very impressed to hear that you were a writer, and I found out your surname was Native American and that that was the majority of your ethnicity — I was way off. When the big lights in the bar went on near midnight and the magic of the atmosphere was destroyed, we headed out into the mild spring night. The air was still and we walked toward your apartment, I remember I kept telling myself to walk slower, I didn’t ever want that night to end. But after you started yawning, I felt a little selfish and just wanted to get you.
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