Stranger

The street is wet. The cab drives away. It’s the wrong place. An unfamiliar place. She should have made it wait. But it’s late.

She starts walking toward light. She’s out of place and people know that. She keeps walking, trying to remain calm. A car slows. She hears conversation, foreign. But the tone is clear. She walks faster. More deliberate. The car follows, slowly. Laughter. Taunting. She feels fear and uncertainty. Wants to run.

She doesn’t run away, though. She feels the rage, born out of fear. She turns toward the car. Runs at it. Screaming. Primal. The occupants momentarily confused. They drive on.

She’s left shaking. Wet in the rain. Her reflection in a broken store window shows her dress clinging to her, her hair plastered to her head. Tears of fear and relief mix with rain. She turns away, heading toward more light.

He’s watching her from the kiosk on the street. Behind the cigarettes and the gum, newspapers and drinks. He motions for her, points to the awning. She is still shaking. She stands, while a small stream of customers filter past. He is young. Jet black curls, that reflect the lights from his kiosk. Dark, five o’clock shadow. Brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders, lean body. Worn jeans.

He speaks sounds she doesn’t recognize to most customers. His voice smooths the edges of the words, softens them. He shakes a hand. Hugs an old woman. High-fives the small boy, tousling his hair. Each customer like a family member.

He offers her something. She shakes her head. He holds up a finger. Makes a call on his cell phone. An old man appears from around the corner. He hugs the old man. Kisses his cheeks. Speaks in low tones, motioning to her. The old man smiled, pats both of his cheeks. Steps behind the register and waves the young man away.

He grabs an umbrella and motions for her to walk with him. Not knowing why she trusts him, she follows, stepping under the umbrella and walking close to him. Feeling warmth radiate from his arms. They exchange names. Pleasantries. The walk is short.

He stops in front of a building. European style hotel. She doesn’t recognize the name. Arabic characters. He kisses a petite, older woman at the desk. The small lobby is filled with people chatting. Smoking. Drinking coffee. He greets them all with smiles and hugs. Motions for her to follow him. They all stare at her matted hair, her clothes plastered to her body. Trusting, she follows him down a hall.

He pulls out a key and opens the door, inviting her in. Hotel bed, hotel desk, hotel chairs. But larger than a hotel room. A part of the room filled with tools and light bulbs and spare parts. He goes to a closet and pulls out a white robe. Goes to the bathroom and brings out large, white towels and hands them to her. She stands, uncertain what to do. He smiles at her, grabs a tool belt and promises to return.

She peels off the wet clothes. Drapes them over the shower rod. Wraps herself in a robe. Wraps a towel around her head. Wanders around this stranger’s room. Family pictures from someplace far away. Picture of him with a pretty, dark-haired young woman, his arm wrapped around her. Engineering textbooks. Notebooks filled with equations. A worn laptop computer. A small coffee maker.

The door opens and he returns, stripping off the tool belt. She feels self conscious. Very aware of the surreal events of the evening. Realizes she’s standing wrapped only in a robe in a stranger’s room. She remembers the car. Strangers taunting her.

She starts to shake again, maybe from the cold, maybe not. The tears come too. He crosses the room quickly. Takes her by the shoulders. His brown eyes are warm, concerned. She is confused and embarrassed. She wipes her eyes. The towel slips from her head, and he catches it. Leads her to the bed, sitting her down, gently. Walks away, returning with a hair brush.

He sits behind her and brushes the wet tangles carefully. It is strange and soothing. He points to the picture of the dark-haired woman. His sister, he explains, holding up the hair brush. She laughs, relaxing some.

She can feel his warm fingers touch her neck as he works at the tangles, and it makes her skin tingle. Her breathing becomes slower more shallow, and her neck muscles relax more. She senses his brush strokes becoming slower, too. She turns and realizes he is watching her, and it makes her pulse quicken. He reaches a hand out to brush a wet strand off her face, his fingers tracing her cheek in doing so. Her lips part involuntarily, and he leans forward to kiss her at that moment, breathing in the air that escapes from between her lips.

His mouth is soft and warm; inquisitive, gentle. She is trembling again, but not from fear, or cold. He leans her back on the bed, slowly, kissing her all the way down. Her hands reach up, her fingers winding through the dark, thick curls at the back of his neck. He lays next to her, touching her face and neck, watching her eyes for a sign. She feels bold; she reaches up and grabs his hand. Kisses his palm. Moves his hand to the tie on her robe. Her heart races.

He unwraps her like a present. Peeling the white terry off her skin in slow measure, exposing inch after inch of creamy bare skin. The gooseflesh rises on her arms, her nipples harden as he slides back the fabric. His fingers skim over her body, following each curve with patience and reverence, like she’s a delicate sculpture. His mouth trails kisses down her body and he unwraps her, warming the chill on her flesh for a moment, then leaving shivers in his wake. She can feel his own breathing become irregular.

He stops at her waist and looks up at her, wanting confirmation. She nods, and he uncovers the last of her flesh, touching her stomach, letting his hand trail further down into her dampness. She arches her back to meet his hand, then his mouth. Cries out when his tongue flicks the most sensitive spot, and feels him groan against her as he presses his mouth to her. Drinking her. She explodes, writhing beneath his mouth. He pauses, his lips flushed, his eyes like molten chocolate. Strips off his shirt. His jeans. His low briefs. He is olive-skinned perfection, dark, soft hairs on his body, gentle muscles on his lean frame flexing with each movement. He lays next to her, and she feels his body radiating heat. Feels him hard against her leg.

She tugs at his arm, guiding him on to her, and he positions himself above her, his shoulders flexing. She kisses him, sliding her legs apart, shifting her hips, welcoming him. His breathing is ragged now, like hers, and he pushes inside of her. Slowly, deliberately, meeting only slight resistance before her body swallows him in warmth and wetness. His strokes are gentle, controlled, in comparison to her thrashing and writhing beneath him. He whispers words she doesn’t understand. She can barely hear them for the blood pounding in her ears. She can feel the pressure building again, and she cries out, begging him to come with her. He hears, responds, the strange words coming faster and more guttural. Words of passion and release. She feels him tense, work harder to control, but even as he peaks, burying himself inside of her, holding her hips tightly to him as he pulses, he is whispering to her, soothing her, calming her, loving her.

Beautiful stranger.