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This was their third time around for the morning, and Will could feel the warmth beat against the seam of his singlet. He had trained his mind over many seasons now: concentrate on the sound of the oar plop into the water, keep the rhythm regular, think of nothing else, hear the voice drone on, understand and obey. But, monitor the passage of time by that regular plop.
Another cafe he could take her might be Gusto’s down at Five Ways. The ambience was nice, and Eloise being a Francophile ... bugger ... plop, pull, raise, rotate ...
The shell flew across the still water of the bay toward the marker buoy. The old boys from Scot’s were faltering as the morning progressed. Not a sport for the flaky minded. The rhythm of the oar had a stutter this morning, with the shell pulling just a fraction to the right.
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