Just because the stretch of her skirt exposed the curvature of her smooth, posterior, my work mate said that he would smash it. He would smash it all night, he said. He would smash it into the bed and if there were no bed he would smash it in thin air, my colleague said, as he chewed his big, fat sandwich full of shit. That she bent over in the table in front of him to take some hand wash out of her bag was, in my colleagues view, not just an invitation to be smashed but a forceful encouragement to be smashed. My colleague chewed his big, fat sandwich and said that he would ruin her. He would ruin her skirt, her body and the very environment where the ruination would take place. I will fucking destroy that, he said, with relish. I’d smash it, ruin it and relish it, he said, with relish. It would take a riot squad to pull me off that, he said, chewing his big, fat sandwich full of shit and relish. That she bent over in her skirt wasn’t just an invitation but it was, my colleague said, an act of war. She has declared war on me, he said. I will split that thing in two! The stretch and fabric of that manmade skirt is a fucking pisstake, he said. The way she bends provocatively in that skirt, knowing I can’t have her, is just as insulting as if she were soiling it, my colleague said. I would fucking ruin that, he said with relish. My colleague never explained what conditions would have to be met to smash it, but his intentions were clear. That thing he said referring to the object in front of us, who was massaging hand wash into her hands, is just flesh and bone. That’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. Flesh and bone, he said, munching his big, fat sandwich full of shit, and I want to tear at her flesh, grab it, tenderize it, claw it and smash it. I would, my colleague said, pin that thing down: finger it, chew it, suck it, hammer it, slap it, gob on it, frig it, bore it, bone it, knob it, drill it, kill it. That’s all flesh and bone is good for, he said. To use. To bugger. To kill. To burn. To eat. It didn’t matter if you wanted to smash your mother, sister or daughter, it was all the same; they were all the same, he said. They’re pieces of meat, said my colleague. The only reason, he said, that I won’t do it, is because we have fucking laws against it. I’ve already done her in my mind anyway, and I can go back there whenever I like, he said, washing down his big, fat sandwich with a liberal swill of fizzy piss. I can at least go over to her table and look the bitch in her face, he grinned like the ugliest animal ever farted into someone’s imagination. I will look at her eyes, knowing that I have smashed her in my mind; that I have shot my load over it, knowing that she can’t do fuck all about it. I can smash anyone I like. I do it every day. No-one is free, he said.