He was waiting. The streets had emptied, the light gone, and…it was raining. A mystic combination which often seemed to go together – the wait in the rain after dark. He pondered this truth and wondered if it might have been different in another city, or even another country. He went further and considered, almost out loud, whether the waiter was always a lover, and the one waited for, the object of desire…the goal, the reward, the trophy. What if the lover was also the loved…?
He was pulled suddenly from these thoughts by a hand on his arm, a warm breath across his cheek, and the familiar touch of lips, on his. They were soft, firm and tasted of just a hint of Scotch. His own lips yielded, then responded and without the luxury of thought, of considering the consequences, he breathed. Deep into his lungs and right under his damp alert skin, ran the rich, fresh, cinnamoned mines and textures of his breath. He knew then that this was more than a ‘It’s late, cold, I missed you, and I want you’. He knew, now deeper than he had ever gone before, that this meant sweet on the rocks surrender.
He caught his breath now, turned away, staggered a little, then turned back, ready. His timing was perfection. The warmth lingering there on his lips, the breath just an arms length away, and the softness in his eyes catching a warm shaft of light. All this before slipping unheard into the wet shadows and disappearing around the grey on grey edges of night…leaving, forever, the sweet, dark, moist scent of a stranger.
A second mini short story. I’m quite liking these.