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In a moment of weakness, she came to me. She told me that I am a servant of God before I am a servant of my own heart. When she said those words, she didn’t know, and I don’t think she knows now that in quiet moments to myself, I often think about what it might be like to serve another with my heart.
She, with her lilting voice and gentle candor, doesn’t know that from the moment those words fell from her lips, a storm started building within me. It was quiet at first, far off in the distance, subtle and easily ignored in favor of more pressing matters. But storms can’t be disregarded for too long. Eventually, the flashes of light and rolling thunder move in and the dark clouds release their burden, with little concern for what might be caught in their path. This storm, with its crackling electricity and heavy, soundless pressure, is near and against its imminent wrath, I am powerless.
We walk the old stone roads of the city and her hand is in mine. It’s early evening and even without the sun’s rays beating down, it is sweltering, so hot that I can almost taste the richness of flora and spice in the air. The heat moves between us in thick waves as we walk, so hot that my hand in hers is slick with sweat. Her brilliant copper hair is pulled up off her slender neck save for a few loose tendrils framing her face, dampened by the humidity and clinging to her glistening skin. She is dressed for the weather, in a simple white tank knotted at the hem and floral skirt that sits high on her waist, swings freely around her narrow hips. She is lithe and she moves with the effortless grace of a dancer. Her porcelain skin is flushed with color and a dewy sheen glows across her chest, slipping out of sight between the contours of her delicate frame. The way that her shirt clings to her curves makes me a bit weak in the knees. I am not supposed to look at her this way, to notice these things, and yet I find it impossible to take my eyes away. For all the beauty that surrounds us, in the old buildings with their garden terraces, and in the faint notes of soulful jazz floating along the cobblestone streets, there is nothing like her.
She looks at me and then across the street, pointing to an ice cream shop with a smile. I sway on the spot momentarily, not sure if it's that smile or the oppressive heat that makes me feel so dizzy, so unsteady on my feet. She grips my hand tighter, pulls me across the road to the window of the little shop. I watch as she peruses the flavor choices and I can’t help the grin that turns up the corners of my mouth, for something as simple as ice cream to bring her so much joy, her childlike innocence and wonder on full display. At last, she settles on a plain vanilla custard, as I knew she would. She waits for me to order but I politely decline my own cone because I know that she will, despite her ambitions, accept defeat halfway through and pass it on to me.
It doesn’t take long. It is so hot that the frozen dessert starts to melt immediately. Try as she does, she can’t keep up with it and within minutes, it’s dripping profusely down the cone and over her hand. She squeals with laugher and shoves the cone in my face, demanding my help. For just a moment, I meet her eyes over the cone and I have to steady myself against the desire to shove it to the side in favor of tasting it another way. But I am not supposed to desire such things and so I oblige her, inclining my head slightly and closing my mouth over the soft vanilla swirl without breaking eye contact. Her eyes widen slightly and they fall to the cone and then rise again to meet mine. For another long second, I hold her gaze and I worry that perhaps that was too much, a bit too sensual a move to make. She smiles shyly and I again have to hold myself steady when her tongue darts out to catch a stray bit of melted ice cream on her bottom lip. I am not supposed to notice these things. She passes the cone to me and takes my hand again, threading her fingers through mine and we walk.
It is so hot that steam rises in billowing clouds off the street and the air quivers with the illusion of water on the horizon. We turn a corner and come upon Jackson Square and the source of the lively music, a ragtag collection of musicians vibing along with the magic of the city. We stop to listen and she sways in time with the notes, her hand still in mine. I just watch her and I am taken by her beauty, by the nimble movements of her body, by the soft smile she offers me as she dances. I’m not sure which of us reached for the other first but suddenly I’m holding her much closer than I should be and we move as one to the stirring beats of the music. The feel of her against me, the scent of her hair, her skin, it is too much and I pull away abruptly, afraid that I might lose control and cross some unnamed boundary. The smile at her lips spreads wider and she looks at me with a twinkle in her soft brown eyes and in that moment, I am almost certain that she knows. She knows and she is a willing participant in this precarious game of cat and mouse.
She shifts her gaze across the square, where an assortment of merchants are gathered, tables full of trinkets for sale and services on offer, the sort that make me a little uneasy. She holds her hand out again and I take it, following her across the clearing. We walk slowly along the seller’s row, and she stops occasionally to examine a piece of art or touch an article of fine fabric. I use her distraction to my advantage and make a quick purchase, something that caught my eye while she was busy gushing over a painting of the city at night. I slip the piece of jewelry into my pocket inconspicuously and rejoin her before she notices my absence.
More tables, more trinkets, and then she giggles in delight as we come upon a caricature artist. She looks at me, the twinkle back in her eye. It’s a silly, tourist thing to do, but I cannot say no to her and so we sit still before the artist, turned to face each other at his request. He finishes a mere ten minutes later and passes the portrait to her. It is a good likeness, this drawing of her and I. I silently marvel at the way the artist expertly captured the gentle lines of her face and the slightly dumbstruck expression on mine. As she tucks the portrait into her bag for safe keeping, I wonder if she notices, if she can see it plainly, the way that I look at her.
It is so hot that I cannot fathom the thought of a hot meal but in this form it is a necessary, if not occasionally arduous, endeavor. If nothing else, a table inside a cafe will bring us temporary respite from the blistering air outside. I ask if she’s hungry and she regards me curiously for a moment before giving her answer with a slow nod. The look in her eyes elicits a peculiar swoop in my stomach, one that has very little to do with the need for food. The heat is getting to me.
Before I can do something I might later regret, I take her by the hand again and lead her down a block we’ve not yet walked and into the nearest restaurant, a dimly lit French bistro full of flowers, soft notes of music floating airily from an antique phonograph. We are seated quickly, in a corner booth far from the door and I am grateful to be tucked away, shielded from the eyes of others. She sits, not across the table, but right next to me, so close that she’s nearly in my lap. It’s chilly inside and the stark contrast in temperature raises a thousand tiny bumps across her skin. Of course, I don’t mind having her this close, so close that I can breathe in the subtle hint of lilac through her hair without detection, I can put my arms around her and pretend the motive is purely practical, a simple matter of sharing body heat.
We are tended to by a small, heavily-accented, otherworldly-looking woman who pours wine even though we didn’t order it and tells us of the menu á prix fixe without describing the dishes. The wine is not a good idea, for a host of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that the little angel at my side doesn’t have the best track record with the consumption of alcohol. It’s a nice red, smooth and rich, notes of vanilla and spices, and is a far cry from the whiskey-laden coffee which has troubled her in the past. A glass or two with dinner will be fine. At least this is what I tell myself, as the bittersweet tannins help to conceal and relax the very noticeable way that having her this close to me alters my state of being.
I need a distraction, badly, and I remember the gift that I purchased while she was otherwise occupied in the square. I pull the necklace from my pocket and let the pendant drop on its chain before her eyes. The tiny clock face hanging from a soft golden chain is an elegant replica of the watch that I carry and I hope that it might serve as a symbol, a little reminder that I am close to her heart when we are assigned apart from one another. She gasps softly and tears fill her brown eyes and the way she looks at me makes my heart want to leap out of its cage.
She shifts slightly, gathers the hair at the base of her neck and holds it out of the way for me to slip the necklace around. I let my fingers dawdle on her skin for a moment longer than I should, tracing the line of the delicate chain lightly. And then, before I can consider the implications of this action, my fingers fall away from that sweet spot and my lips replace them in a lingering kiss. She takes a sharp breath, turning to me with a question in her eyes that I haven’t prepared an answer for. I open my mouth to say something, to apologize perhaps, but close it again before I can manage any words, partly because I have no idea what to say, partly because her hand, the one that’s lightly resting just above my knee under the table tightens and I … can’t. I take her hand and draw it away from its perch, fearing a considerable problem on the horizon otherwise. So much for distractions.
Her eyes flick down to my lips and she is so close to me that I can feel the whisper of breath against them. I pray that she doesn’t do that maddening thing with her tongue again because if she does, I am certain that it will be the moment in which I lose this game and fully succumb to the staggering desire to taste her mouth, which has been not-so-subtly building within me all day. If I’m to be honest with myself, it’s been building within me for a lot longer than that. She inches closer still and I am more suspicious than ever that it might not be something that I am fighting alone. Her eyes dart back to mine in the microscopic expanse of time before I am sure that her lips will meet mine at last and I hold my breath.
Our waitress returns with steaming plates of mushroom julienne and a heavy-handed refill of our wine glasses and I have to keep myself from groaning out loud in frustration when the clatter of porcelain on wood interrupts this unraveling of wills. The little angel at my side smiles shyly at the woman and watches her walk away before taking her glass in her hand and emptying the crimson liquid in a single mouthful. She turns to me and then shifts her eyes back to the plate before her, pushing it away a few inches, her mane of golden red hair swishing about her shoulders with the subtle shake of her head. Mushrooms are on a short list of things she will not touch and I know that our meal has come to a swift end. This is of no consequence to me, as I am fairly certain that the rumbling hunger within me will not, after all, be satisfied by food. I meet her eyes with a knowing smile, throw down a handful of bills and nod towards the door. She weaves her fingers through mine and pulls me hastily out of the booth, the mushroom julienne already a distant memory.
Night has fallen over the French Quarter and the air is still so hot, so astonishingly humid, that I struggle to draw a proper breath as we step through the door and back onto the sweltering streets of this old city. As we walk in silence, my mind is as tightly wound up in thoughts of the kiss that almost was as my hand is wound up in hers and I can hardly manage to put one foot in front of the other. We turn down one block and then another and I am sure that her unyielding grip is the only thing keeping me from going everywhere at once, the only thing keeping me upright as we dance on this most dangerous of grounds.
Suddenly, out of the darkness of the night, an esoteric woman with wild eyes and a slightly haggard appearance approaches us, blocking our path. She gazes from one of us to the other curiously for a moment, before she settles on the object of my every thought, reaching out and taking the hand which isn’t clasped in mine, turning it over, tracing a finger along the lines of her palm, brows knitted together in concentration. A moment later, her eyes are flitting furiously between us again.
The woman speaks at last and her words send a shiver up my spine, despite the unbearable heat. Addressing me directly, she says,
“C’est écrit dans les étoiles.”
I wonder briefly if this woman is some sort of fortune teller or perhaps a mind-reader, peddling her strange musings upon unsuspecting visitors. I have to remind myself that these bizarre mutterings are just smoke and mirrors, meant to draw a reaction, carefully read from the body language of the recipients. At best, it is a lucky guess, though I can see that the mystical being standing before us did get the reaction she sought, though not from me.
It is written in the stars.
Beside me, she is quiet, her eyes lowered and unfocused, shining a bit in the low light of night, a small smile pulling at her lips. Far above us, the stars in the sky are beginning to disappear behind a thick cover of menacing clouds. I hadn’t noticed the storm rolling in. Perhaps it is a metaphor, a warning. Perhaps it is merely coincidence.
The woman retreats, leaving us in a still, bewildered silence for one very long minute. She fidgets at my side, her hand pulsing in syncopated beats in time with my heart, which might actually vacate my chest and launch itself into the stratosphere. My heart, with its erratic pulls and tumbles, is moments away from betraying me where I stand. The sky flashes with a pop of electricity and the surrounding air responds with a deep, low rumble. The storm is here and I am powerless against the uncurling strength with which it will soon dominate this piece of earth, against the curiously untamed look I find in the warm brown eyes that are now steadily holding my gaze.
Three drops of rain freckle her cheeks, and suddenly it comes all at once, a constant patter on her nose and arms and hair, rolling down her neck, tracing the curves of her graceful form like tiny rivers tracking through an untouched fragment of wild forest. I don’t know if it’s the supernatural forces in this city at work to tempt me or if it’s simply the inner desire of my heart finally making itself known, but so help me God, I cannot stop myself. My hands tangle through her rain-dampened locks and as if they have a mind of their own, my lips seek hers in the darkness and at last, I am lost. I can taste the wine lingering on her tongue and I can’t help the sound that escapes from somewhere deep in my throat. I want her to know what I feel and I want her to feel it too.
It is so hot that the falling rain offers no cooling relief and only seems to stoke the flames that have begun to coil and loop around us like a beckoning call to the place of brimstone and ash which lies beneath our feet. But this I cannot care about, not now that I am consumed by the taste of her mouth, by the curl of her fingers knotting in my shirt, by her wet skin under my hands. The sky lights up again and the air around us erupts in sound so loud that the strike of electricity might have been mere feet away. She jumps, yelps out loud, and the heat building between us finds a momentary respite as she gazes up and then back to me, the lusty look in her eyes shifting quickly to one of alarm.
As if on cue, a light weight drops into the pocket of my trousers and I find a simple key, knowledge filling my mind. I take her hand and incline my head in the direction of an apartment just across the block, a safe space to ride out this storm. We make quick work of getting to the wrought-iron staircase up to the terrace and second-floor entry, which is surrounded by lush flowers and old vines of ivy clinging to the cracked stone walls. Inside, the small space is decorated as if from another era, all antique furniture, rich upholstery, intricately patterned wallpaper, and grand art.
I feel along the inside wall closest to the french doors which lead back out to the balcony and find a switch. It bathes us in a soft, golden glow and my mind immediately returns to that potent place of want as my eyes rake over her from head to toe. I’m not sure if I knew before this moment, but I’m acutely aware now of the effect that water has on white fabric. I do initially try to keep focused on her face, but my weakness takes my gaze a little lower, where I can clearly see the swell of her breasts and the outline of the delicate lace that holds them. Maybe I shouldn’t have turned on the light.
I attempt to ground myself, to pivot away from such a display of shameless hedonism. I am not supposed to look at her this way. But for several long seconds, I can do nothing except stare helplessly and wonder if she’s aware of just how easy it would be for me to lose control and let these sinful thoughts take over. The sound of thunder rattles the windows and the lights flicker and fade, mercifully sending the room and the undignified look on my face back into darkness.
I’m not sure which of us moves first or how exactly I manage to find the only blank sliver of wall in the room but I am grateful for the hard surface at my back, grateful for the support it offers as she unceremoniously crashes against me and sends us both back into a tailspin of touch and mingled breath, the heat of temptation flaring again in earnest. At last, I find some semblance of my voice.
“I—I’m sorry … I shouldn’t …”
I know what I want to say, what I should say, but I can’t seem to manage anything but this disjointed stutter. I shouldn’t be doing this, touching you like this. She makes a low sound of incredulity in response to my weak attempt at chivalry, as if I’ve just said the most horrendously absurd thing I could possibly say. It is immediately evident to me that an apology, especially one so disingenuous, is unwelcome in this moment.
“Are you insane? ” She counters, voice low and raspy, one hand tightening at the small of my back, “I’ve only been waiting for you to do that all day.”
Before I can respond, she leans in and opens her lips for me again and I let my tongue curl around hers, swallowing the unbelievably provocative sound she makes at the intrusion. I can scarcely stop for breath because her mouth is so warm, so sweet, so inviting, but somehow I manage, pulling away just enough to see her eyes, to make one last attempt, to search for any sign at all that I should stop.
“We don’t have to …” I start and then falter, not even sure what I’m trying to save us from. I am moments away from hurling myself over this imaginary boundary and dragging her with me. Her breath is shallow and quick and my resolve to stop this madness threatens to launch itself eagerly out of the window and into the howling wind.
“Oh, yes we do,” she says against my mouth, her fingers twisting tightly in my hair, pulling me swiftly and decidedly into the oblivion that I have been trying (and failing) to restrain all evening.
Another loud crack of thunder rips through the silence again and I know now that she is the real storm, that what’s on the other side of these walls is nothing compared to her, to this perfect tempestuous fusion of light and sound and electricity and that I will never want anything more than I want her to move in now and make a mess of me and everything else in her path.