She starts removing her clothes the moment she’s over the fence. Her top goes over her head, and for a moment she stands with arms raised and shoulders folded, her breasts heaving heavy against the satiny material of her bra. She’s looks so pale in the sunlight – her flat stomach and slender arms and shoulders all paper white apart from a slight blush of freckle that crosses the bridge of her nose.
*The sun feels good*, she says. Then she turns and is gone, unbuckling her bra behind her back as she goes. You follow as quickly as you’re able, scrambling over what’s left of the tall, barred fence. By the time your feet find ground on the other side she’s disappeared from view, but the trail of clothing she left behind is easy enough to follow.
Nobody comes out this way much anymore. And even those few hikers who do would never cross the fence. All the same, you pick up her top as you pass it, and pluck her bra from the low limbs of a tree like some odd fruit. Further up the dirt path you find her skirt, completely undone. Then her leggings, tangled in the undergrowth. You collect them up. Finally, splayed across the path like a provocation, her panties – little more than a scrap of black lace.