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When the braids were done, they were fastened above my ears with clips.She admired her work in the mirror gently turning my head from side to side. "You look so lovely with these braids, very attractive."Then she started massaging my exposed neck, making me melt into her hands.I had to talk about my feelings with her. "Jenny?" Our eyes met. "I'm having a lot of feelings right now? It's a little confusing, I'm really sorry. I hope you don't think I'm... Well, this is making me kind of..." Excited?" She apparently knew what was going on with me."And guilty." I added."I have to admit, this *is* very exciting for me too." It is?!" It immediately made me feel better to hear that.Jenny's look told me she was up to something. "And you know what else..." No." I answered, feeling all pins and needles."I'm not done *yet* making you excited!"With that her lips dove into my neck, kissing it up and down and up and down some more. "MMMMMMM-HHHMMM. Don't you simply *adore* having your neck. So off we went. The Black Mill wasn't a mill and it wasn't black. It used to be a mill,but it got abandoned. Then roadwork diverted the stream that used toserve it. The Black part (depending on who you believe) was either 'causethey used to have segregated mills, or the guy who built it was calledBlack. Carlos was a nickname, and he wasn't Hispanic. Buzzy was reallycalled Marion Busby, Jr. But he had a temper, especially about beingcalled Marion. After having my dad's surname for a few years, I'd settledinto a spell as 'Patrick Owen Hollis,' but this wasn't to last (I've hadtwo first names, four last ones, and I invent a new middle one as oftenas I buy shoes). Too much information, perhaps, but it's appropriate to a story wherethings aren't always as they appear. Things change. Lives change.Sometimes frequently. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes drifting in adirection you can only appreciate in hindsight. Walter, to the best of my knowledge is, and always has been, Walter. Black Mill.
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