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A man I have always, and will always, hate! And yet memories of that kiss stir something deep in my soul, making me ache to feel his skin beneath my fingertips, his hands on my body. My hand presses to my stomach and runs lower. I groan softly, then, mortified, wake up fully. He’s not in bed but that doesn’t mean he’s not somewhere in the tent, watching me, seeing my hand move towards the waistband of my pants!
I sit up, looking around quickly, but he’s not there. A frown crosses my lips, and before I can realise what I’m doing, I stand, feet bare, and pad towards the stretches of fabric that form a door. I push one open and for a moment I pause, the sheer beauty of the desert at night robbing me completely of breath.
The stars are so bright. I’ve never seen anything like this, despite the fact I grew up in a rural part of North Carolina. This is incredible. I feel as though I’ve stepped through a portal into a landscape just freshly painted. The moonlight casts the sand in a silver glow, the trees starkly shaped and black, the stars like explosions of diamond dust strewn across the sky. The night is cooler than the day, of course, but it’s still balmy and warm, yet I shiver as I turn towards the water.
Perhaps a part of me knew what to expect? Was the shiver a premonition?
He’s standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the sky, so I know he hasn’t yet seen me. I could creep back into the tent and pretend I’m still asleep. I could escape unnoticed.
My legs though carry me towards the water, as drawn to it as I am to him. There is magic in the desert, and more so at night. If I’ve stepped into a different portal then something about the regular rules has changed; I no longer feel as constricted as I did in the daytime. It’s ethereal and beautiful.
My feet are wet before he realises I’m here. His eyes latch to my face and I stop moving, my breath exploding from me on one long exhalation. The part of me that’s been taught good, southern manners wants me to say ‘hi’, or to apologise for intruding, but the magic of the night renders me mute. He’s not wearing a shirt and his chest is everything I’d imagined it to be, and more. Chiselled, tanned, with a line of dark hair arrowing down his middle, disappearing into the water’s surface. His muscles are etched, his skin taut, and he has several tattoos, which I hadn’t expected. Lines of writing run up his sides. There are also graphics – a picture above his heart and one low on his abdomen. My mouth is dry; I look away.
A bird flies overhead, wide wingspan and majestic, its flapping wings the only sound. Their rhythm is slow and determined, echoing something within my heart.
I take a step forward, then another, my heart beating slowly but with a strength that pummels me from the inside out. His eyes follow me; I can’t look away. The water is the perfect temperature and yet I shiver again. Another premonition? But of what?
The water laps gently at my hips. A few more steps and I’m close to him – just a few feet away. Still, he watches me wordlessly. My skin is covered in goosebumps, but not because it’s cold. The bird circles overhead, drawing my attention for a moment. It comes to land in a tree across the water, settling so I see its silhouette. Regal and proud, it shimmers like the sand, a silver sheen on its glorious feathers.
When I look back at Zahir, he’s moved closer. The water around us ripples and I feel the poignancy of that – those ripples reminding me of life, and how every decision we make causes small vibrations that go outwards, changing things we can’t imagine.
“You should be sleeping.” His words rumble and vibrate in the depths of my soul.
“Says who?”
His frown is infinitesimal, just a tightening of his lips.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
I cast a glance at my wristwatch – a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. “It’s actually the early hours of the morning.”
His smile makes my pulse hum. “So it is.”
“You couldn’t sleep?”
He dips his head in silent agreement.
“Why not?”
“I sleep very little.”
A small laugh escapes my lips. “Because you’re so tough and macho, you don’t need something as dull as sleep?”
To my surprise, he smiles – a smile that is genuine and makes his eyes spark with mine. Warmth floods my body; I sway forward. Magic surrounds us.
“When my father was…sick,” he pauses a little before describing his father’s state. “I took to sleeping in his room. I made a bed on the floor, but I spent most of the night lying there with one eye open, listening to changes in his breathing, anything that might indicate he’d worsened.”
Sympathy runs through me. “He died a long time ago?”
He nods slowly, a look tightening his features that expresses a deep sense of grief. “I was nine when he got ill, and eleven when he died.”
I shake my head sadly. “So young.”
“In some ways, but not in others.”
“And your mother?”
“She died in childbirth.”
