The mall garage is patrolled constantly by security guards in their silly little cars with the ever-flashing yellow lights which make it nearly impossible for them to actually catch anyone doing anything, but add a curiously exciting element of danger and interruption to making out in a parked vehicle, especially once the number of unbuttoned buttons and unzipped zippers, the pace of breath and the interaction of hands and mouths and exposed flesh has reached a pace that ducking down and rearranging clothes seems almost not worth the effort. The trip to the mall, after all, is already an exercise in not quite being seen, of walking together in public with the plausible deniability of not quite touching in the unlikely event that we meet someone who knows either of us and has some peculiar misguided impulse to mention it to a wife or husband, and the tension of the hour spent so brazen in our naughtiness (we thought then, how little we knew we would become capable of) is unleashed in the hidden confines of the garage as we kiss, as we fondle, as I finger her, as she comes, kissing me, describing her orgasm in to my mouth, her hand wrapped around my erection, as she lowers her head to suck me off, the first flash of the yellow light cresting the top of the farthest ramp.

I am reminded every time I pass the mall and the flashing yellow lights visible through the slits in the garage wall, but the memory is stronger today as my tall thin dark-haired new coworker pulls her car in to park, as we sit for a moment, as in a promise, before walking, not quite touching to a bar in the mall, as we walk back, an hour later, touching seemingly by accident, as we sit in the car, as I wonder how soon I should get home to dinner with my family, and whether the second date is too early to kiss her.