"Smirnoff Ice, in an ice-filled glass please."
"Sure."
The stress of a hectic week is to be evaporated by a cold sip of alcohol. The night is calm, a blanket of blackness glittered by a couple of stars here and there. The past few days weren't easy. Preparation and procrastination didn't mix well, coupled with anticipation for a weekend of absolut pleasures.
"Here you go."
"Merci."
The outdoor bar provided a comfortable exposure to the woods on the outskirts of the resort. The resort itself consisted of a bunch of cabins, enclosed within the forests of South Carolina. Early summer breezes and tranquil nights made the timing just perfect, especially following that long, tiring week. Choosing a light drink is just a prelude to further expected delights.
Booking the smallest cabin is a tactical choice. Warmth, lack of space and the lone queen bed being part of the general plan. A weekend to be forgotten and remembered is the scheme, and strategy is key, beginning with that ice-filled Smirnoff Ice. A drink just enough to up the mood without disturbing any of the required senses needed in just a couple of hours.
"Aloo."
"Hala walla."
"Wainek?"
"At the bar, you?"
"I'll be there soon. Everything ready?"
"Yes, but there is a small issue, unfortunately."
"Sheno, sh9ar?"
"Double cabins are fully booked, so 7ejazt the studio-like one."
"Oh, la 3ady. It's okay. We'll work it out."
The plan is working out much better than expected, as no signs of protest were raised. This small win deserved another drink, but that can't happen, for the night to be enjoyable. A cigarette would just do the trick. Hydrated lips cuvetting a Marlboro Light infusing the Smirnoff's sourness with a nicotine-filled pleasure, exhibiting dances of blue smoke through the illuminated darkness, did the trick.
The iPhone vibrated: "Cabin number?"
"12."
"I'll be there in 3 mins."
"Okay."
A simper. One of those uncaring smirks. Nothing is going to ruin this. Confidence is sky high. Stepping off of the bar's highchair, and heading to #12. A slow walk. Why rush? Let her have all the time she needs. After all she has been driving for long hours, and may require some short-lived privacy.
iPhone: "Where are you?"
"Coming."
"Quick, I'm inside."
Nothing is going rush him. Maybe his heart is rushed with anticipation, but the steps are as steady as they were. Subtleness and neutrality are the roles being played, and they are to be stuck with from the beginning until the end.
The Jaguar is parked next to the Mustang. Typical. Maybe another drink would've been better. #12 is there, lights glowing from the window, and movement within is apparent. The time has come. Knock knock; curtesy is vital and gentleman-like.
أنا وانتِ وبس
أنا وانتِ وما معنا أحد
Lagging seconds, followed by movements and then steps towards the door. She opened and everything opened, the years of anticipation, longing and lust. She's there in front of him. There to be held and carried, there to be gazed at. There, a creator's masterpiece, a craft of glamour. Composure escaped him, as if what he originally planned for flew out of his throat. Nothing was uttered according to his mental script. He hugged. He rode into those open arms, clasping her scent, yearning for what he didn't ever own, resting his head on her shoulder, drowning within her hair.
Trance.
أخاف لو مرت النسمات، تشاركني شذى عطرك
Writer's Note:
This may be continued.
"Sure."
The stress of a hectic week is to be evaporated by a cold sip of alcohol. The night is calm, a blanket of blackness glittered by a couple of stars here and there. The past few days weren't easy. Preparation and procrastination didn't mix well, coupled with anticipation for a weekend of absolut pleasures.
"Here you go."
"Merci."
The outdoor bar provided a comfortable exposure to the woods on the outskirts of the resort. The resort itself consisted of a bunch of cabins, enclosed within the forests of South Carolina. Early summer breezes and tranquil nights made the timing just perfect, especially following that long, tiring week. Choosing a light drink is just a prelude to further expected delights.
Booking the smallest cabin is a tactical choice. Warmth, lack of space and the lone queen bed being part of the general plan. A weekend to be forgotten and remembered is the scheme, and strategy is key, beginning with that ice-filled Smirnoff Ice. A drink just enough to up the mood without disturbing any of the required senses needed in just a couple of hours.
"Aloo."
"Hala walla."
"Wainek?"
"At the bar, you?"
"I'll be there soon. Everything ready?"
"Yes, but there is a small issue, unfortunately."
"Sheno, sh9ar?"
"Double cabins are fully booked, so 7ejazt the studio-like one."
"Oh, la 3ady. It's okay. We'll work it out."
The plan is working out much better than expected, as no signs of protest were raised. This small win deserved another drink, but that can't happen, for the night to be enjoyable. A cigarette would just do the trick. Hydrated lips cuvetting a Marlboro Light infusing the Smirnoff's sourness with a nicotine-filled pleasure, exhibiting dances of blue smoke through the illuminated darkness, did the trick.
The iPhone vibrated: "Cabin number?"
"12."
"I'll be there in 3 mins."
"Okay."
A simper. One of those uncaring smirks. Nothing is going to ruin this. Confidence is sky high. Stepping off of the bar's highchair, and heading to #12. A slow walk. Why rush? Let her have all the time she needs. After all she has been driving for long hours, and may require some short-lived privacy.
iPhone: "Where are you?"
"Coming."
"Quick, I'm inside."
Nothing is going rush him. Maybe his heart is rushed with anticipation, but the steps are as steady as they were. Subtleness and neutrality are the roles being played, and they are to be stuck with from the beginning until the end.
The Jaguar is parked next to the Mustang. Typical. Maybe another drink would've been better. #12 is there, lights glowing from the window, and movement within is apparent. The time has come. Knock knock; curtesy is vital and gentleman-like.
أنا وانتِ وبس
أنا وانتِ وما معنا أحد
Lagging seconds, followed by movements and then steps towards the door. She opened and everything opened, the years of anticipation, longing and lust. She's there in front of him. There to be held and carried, there to be gazed at. There, a creator's masterpiece, a craft of glamour. Composure escaped him, as if what he originally planned for flew out of his throat. Nothing was uttered according to his mental script. He hugged. He rode into those open arms, clasping her scent, yearning for what he didn't ever own, resting his head on her shoulder, drowning within her hair.
Trance.
أخاف لو مرت النسمات، تشاركني شذى عطرك
Writer's Note:
This may be continued.
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