Month: January 2011

You stumble into the room and laugh when she falls on her ass, her knobby knees knocking together as her guffaws echo against the walls and out into the valley air. Just before you close the door you look outside and find the world alive and full of lights as if you have been elevated to another plane just above yours, where there is just a little more to look forward to. You feel magic where there can logically be none, and a pounding in your chest that you have not felt for some time.  You see your Jeep parked in the lot below and the last glimpse of the outside world is the MOTEL 6 sign centered above a long metal pole in the corner of the parking lot.

You shut the door and turn back to her. Her splayed body fits nicely into the red-and-black carpet of Persian design and Ukrainian manufacture. For a moment you look down upon her and find yourself falling in love, not with the girl but with the moment in time. Every detail a brush stroke, every movement a different paint. Her long brown skirt extended down her gorgeously tanned white legs, and the knee-high black boots below them. The tan t-shirt she wears tonight bares no logo to call attention to the golden tits you so slyly stole glances of all the evening long. She lies back on the ground now and holds her hand to her forehead, still laughing, laying back with her legs demurely crossed at the ankles. Her styled blonde hair shines like a halo and heavenly calling around her head, spilled across the carpet beneath the orange light of the bedside table lamp.

“Is it still funny?” you ask.

She moves her eyes downward in your direction, relative to her horizontal orientation, and smiles wide, then laughs some more. She barely manages to say, “Pick me up.”

You approach her and crouch, looking her over and inhibited by little more than a general sense of propriety and a loss of sharpness in your senses.  You run your hand along her arm, and she watches, waiting to see what will follow, what sensation you will dare to attempt next. You run your hand down her arm, grazing the light hairs on her forearm, the slight bump along her wrist, the raised veins of her hand. When you get to her fingers you take her hand in yours and bring it to your lips, kissing her gently and in the process massaging her with week-old road stubble and the sweet potpourri of lamb, hummus, beer, and wine.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m a romantic. And a gentleman.”

She begins to laugh again and you feel a moment of hesitation. When you look down to her thighs you decide to take leave and slide your hand down, far, feeling her naked thigh and an immediate shiver followed by a cessation of laughter.

“How romantic are you?” she asks.

The only exchange is breath to breath, exhalation and elevation of heartbeats thundering in your chest and possibly hers, as evidenced by the sight of the rise and fall of her tits beneath her t-shirt.  You move your hand further up, and lean over her, looking into her eyes, the bluest eyes. You see the blue Starry Night, the black of the sun when stared at for far too long, streaks of gray from the center rose to the outer expanses of white. She gazes into yours and her breath washes over you again, tinted with the same familiar aromas and reminding you of the sweat on your cheek, her hands pulling your neck toward her just a short while ago.  You remember the beginning as a chance encounter in the desert, at a gas station, and through some miracle of awkward charm and out-of-town mystique she agreed to let you thank her with dinner. A boisterous Greek dinner and red wine, followed by beer and your poor dart throwing skills bested by hers.

“I play a lot,” she’d said.  “There’s not much else to do.”

“You hustled me.”

“Did I?  Well, I didn’t know we were playing for anything.”

“We have to play for something.  What do you want?”

She chuckled and won another two and three quarters of a match before falling off her stool and beginning her laugh extravaganza.  When you picked her up you reached to caress her face and asked if she’d decided what she wanted.  She nodded and your lips reached for hers, more eager, perhaps, than she’d expected, remaining out of sync for a minute or two until you found your rhythm and began feeling the melody, parting your lips, coming together, hot breaths and your hands around her back, down toward her ass, one you knew you recognized as unfuckwithable when you saw her wearing the jeans at the gas station. Standing alone, apart from the bar patrons, leaning against a chalkboard and coating her hair and back in dust, the minutes pass, and you tell her to come back with you.

“We haven’t finished,” she says.

“I’ll give this one to you,” and when you said that she’d begun to laugh again, rubbing her hand along your ribs, right in the spot where you had fallen upon a rock not twelve hours before. Her teeth dimly shown in the gloom of the dart corner and you decided you’d had enough darkness and turn her toward the light, to see her smile and the sheen of her skin.

“I’m staying nearby and I won’t be here tomorrow,” you told her. “Why don’t you come with me, tonight?”

“That’s bold.”

“It’s not everyday I meet a beautiful blonde in the desert.”

She placed her arms around your neck and kissed you again, and said: “Lead the way, desert man.”

Your giddiness knew no bounds as you walked the few blocks to your motel, and found your way up the stairs, pausing only to rub your hand over her shoulder or ass or hips and once stopping to kiss her neck because you told her it called to you out there beneath the moonlight.

“I’m romantic enough,” you tell her, and then take a vow of momentary silence as your hand navigates the folds of the skirt, up toward her crotch, your lips and hers melding and moist tongues rubbing over one another until at last you feel the point where her thighs meet and press your palm into her right inner thigh, guiding her to move it aside. When you reach her pussy and rub your hand along her clothed mound you feel the evening dew, and see her close her eyes for a moment.

“Baby,” is all she whispers.  “Baby.”

“My name,” you say.

“Vic.”

“Good,” and without hesitation you pick her up and place her at the foot of the bed, laying her down and bringing her legs together before you. Her clothes remain except for the nimblest of fingers sliding her black panties down, feeling them curl as the cotton is dragged over her warm flesh, rolled and yanked until they are past the knees and down toward the ankles and thrown across the room for comically horny effect. She smiles at this and then tenses when you kneel before her and move her skirt up to her waist, exposing the softest chestnut down of the supplest mound and warming your every sense of manhood until you are swelled to capacity and driven by the sort of madness known only in the moment and in the presence of such a beautiful, luscious pussy.

You bring your finger to her and slide it in, deep, curling upward and hoping to feel her react just a bit, which she does, and she brings her hands to her thighs as you do so. You massage her slowly, raising the temperature degree by degree, aching and waiting to see what it will take, how far you must take her. She begins to tighten her thighs and the glorious ass beneath, and you venture forth, bringing your fingers into her and feeling her react, watching which does what and waiting to hear those magical words:

“Oh, God.  Don’t stop.”

Far too eager, thoughts become short and sweet, and movements cease to be romantic as they take on the immediacy of your need, of your desire for more and her cries in the room. If she can laugh then she can cry out when you part her and finally, hungrily, taste her. Your neck stiffens for a moment when she takes your short hair in her hands and you collect yourself to begin at the top, at the soft nubble of a button just below the cushion of hair around it, and take it between your lips, suckling and stimulating her inside simultaneously, feeling her thighs clench and squirm around you, the tentacles of Medusa writhing in beautiful agony. She writhes and breathes before you and the assault on your senses overwhelms you. Every inhaled breath drives you slide into her faster and faster, using your tongue and lips with all the skill and luck you can muster. Her breaths quicken as your assault on her mind causes her to cry out, finally, loudly, and escalates her to the highest perch, your heaven and hers, your union of chemical and electrical reactions no smaller or less explosive than the ecstacy of the first meeting of Adam and Eve.

The chirp of her staccato breath fills the space and you lean back, removing your shirt so as to feel your chest and stomach rugs slide along her thighs and wet pussy, sliding yourself like the serpent, the primordial beast, reaching for her mouth and placing your fingers before her, keeping your vow of silence. She tastes takes you in slowly, then whole, tasting herself between shallow breaths.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” she says, quickly and with no kind regard or concern for emotion. You flip her, like a pancake, a syrupy sweet bundle of warmth, and undo the buttons of her skirt, sliding it toward you and leaving it in a sad slump of a pile on the carpet. Then, you speak.

“Lift your ass up,” you say, without thought or reason, an automatic response trained into your brain by past experience and too much porn for thought. She slides herself back and presents, to you, the ass.

“Fuck me,” she says, and before you have to say it she adds, “Vic.”

The ass.

The ass that you knew you’d spotted, like a hawk in its prime patrolling the sky, seeing the most symmetrical, round, gorgeous cheeks you never dared to dream of. The ass of champions, ass of the class, ass that women the world over worked and failed so hard to obtain. The ass, her ass, positioned before you, and so distracting that your pants and shorts remain on for several seconds longer than should be allowed. You dare not test her patience and immediately remove all articles, bringing your suffocated cock out for air and testing her waters with the slightest of grazes.

You mutter, “Tell me what you want,” as it is now your turn to be short of breath and patience.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, and before she is done you are inside her and the stars streak across your eyes, orange bulbs against a flowered sky, ripples of sheets and blonde monsters in the sea, the shock of wetness and slick flesh parted, the lull of confession and ease of a long, drawn out swim across the lake of your eyes, filled with her modest hourglass figure and this is the moment of a lifetime, the time of life and youth and all that is sweet and beautiful about the existence of the universe.

You have been thrusting into her, consistently and now with increased force, and when you feel the urge strike you bring your hand to her ass and aim for a handprint, a red mark that she mews over, and again, and she does not remark but rather makes cute animal sounds, like ducklings, and puppies, and the chirp of the chicklets, each push into her a marvel of human engineering, each slap a wonder of human endurance, and each unrecognizable groan of your own so foreign you are momentarily convinced there is another man in the room.

In spite of the sounds she doesn’t say a word and her breathy voice continues urging you on, gripping your cock tightly and milking you, goading you to her end but so cruelly forgetting about yours. She does not realize that this is a treat, a rare delight for a man for whom women remain the greatest of mysteries, the most distant of complexities yet to be fully appreciated. This gift will not be so quickly enjoyed nor forgotten even when other women have come and gone for here, tonight, she is the blonde muse, and there will be no rush nor final finale. Such moments are reserved for the night after night after night, when familiarity and far too much time together call for the slow-witted but occasionally thrilling quickie.

“Please,” she begs, and you hold her firmly, tightly.

“Please what?” between thrusts, and “Please what?” again.

“Please fuck me, my pussy.  Please make me come.  Please.”

“Again,” and she repeats herself, and begins to understand your need. Her voice fills the room, your ears ringing with her low utterances and pleading, a birdsong in the night air and you think about a place in your mind, a small dot, a grand world where you are the king, the ruler and master of all things.  In this world you reign benevolently and are rewarded justly for your every great deed and all the while you can still hear her calling to you to fuck her and give it to her and the intermittent moans filling the space begin to burden you until you bring your hand onto her ass once, twice, to break the monotony of her voice with sharp squeaks. You begin to feel yourself tighten, skin becomes like leather, and you realize something that for some reason has never crossed your mind as an event, as a happening, an impossibility when wandering in the clouds but now very real and imminent.

“I’m going to come,” you say, “I’m going to come.”

Moving faster, suddenly aware of the possibility of a terrible mistake, you panic, and you say again, “I’m going to come, turn around!” and you pull out suddenly, leaving her collapsed for a moment until she turns to the side, her face sweaty and in disbelief until she sees you approach her and crawls towards you, suddenly aware and also seemingly panicking, as if some great moment in time will be lost if something is not done quickly. With little hesitation she kneels before you on the bed, t-shirt still tightly wrapped around the golden tits, and takes you into her mouth, where only the slightest sensation causes an eruption so grand and ground-breaking that you hold her for support, trembling like a child waiting alone at a bus stop in the snow, seeing his short life flash before his eyes in the snow flurries swirling around and inexplicably warm and moist as they envelop him whole and then vanish into a vast darkness, an endless void, a dot in your skull that was once a kingdom now reduced to ash and rubble, emptiness, a nonexistence so wonderful that were it not for the oncoming lights of a train you would remain in this place forever.

Then there is a loss of senses, of running water, of the pops of a cannon. Before your knees buckle she pats your thigh, and you step back to see her hold her hand over her mouth. She looks up, breathing again, breathing deeply, and then she lets out a chuckle before standing and retreating to the bathroom. You lie back on the bed and collect yourself as you look on at your socks, made of wool and selected for their practicality in the great expanses of the California deserts, but not very appealing. You listen to water running, then her footsteps returning to you.

“I’m glad you stopped,” she says.

“Did you come?” She smiles and says she had, but in the hyperaware state of post-orgasm you detect an insincerity to her tone, a flighty misdirection of contentment.

When she begins to collect her clothes you stand and put on your shorts, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“You’re leaving? It’s the middle of the night, it’s early.”

“Yea, I have to go. I have to get going.”

“We just got started. I can go buy some condoms and come back.” You unslyly glance at her tits, barely loved, never seen.

“No, I have to go. I’m sorry. I forgot I have work tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? I can stay. I have nowhere to go. We can do something tomorrow.”

“No,” she tells you.  “You continue your adventure,” and she leaves you with a smile, and the twinkle of her blue eyes, the only blue eyes you have ever had in your calm, adventurous life.

You stumble into the room and laugh when she falls on her ass, her knobby knees knocking together as her guffaws echo against the walls and out into the valley air. Just before you close the door you look outside and find the world alive and full of lights as if you have been elevated to another plane just above yours, where there is just a little more to look forward to. You feel magic where there can logically be none, and a pounding in your chest that you have not felt for some time.  You see your Jeep parked in the lot below and the last glimpse of the outside world is the MOTEL 6 sign centered above a long metal pole in the corner of the parking lot.

You shut the door and turn back to her. Her splayed body fits nicely into the red-and-black carpet of Persian design and Ukrainian manufacture. For a moment you look down upon her and find yourself falling in love, not with the girl but with the moment in time. Every detail a brush stroke, every movement a different paint. Her long brown skirt extended down her gorgeously tanned white legs, and the knee-high black boots below them. The tan t-shirt she wears tonight bares no logo to call attention to the golden tits you so slyly stole glances of all the evening long. She lies back on the ground now and holds her hand to her forehead, still laughing, laying back with her legs demurely crossed at the ankles. Her styled blonde hair shines like a halo and heavenly calling around her head, spilled across the carpet beneath the orange light of the bedside table lamp.

“Is it still funny?” you ask.

She moves her eyes downward in your direction, relative to her horizontal orientation, and smiles wide, then laughs some more. She barely manages to say, “Pick me up.”

You approach her and crouch, looking her over and inhibited by little more than a general sense of propriety and a loss of sharpness in your senses.  You run your hand along her arm, and she watches, waiting to see what will follow, what sensation you will dare to attempt next. You run your hand down her arm, grazing the light hairs on her forearm, the slight bump along her wrist, the raised veins of her hand. When you get to her fingers you take her hand in yours and bring it to your lips, kissing her gently and in the process massaging her with week-old road stubble and the sweet potpourri of lamb, hummus, beer, and wine.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m a romantic. And a gentleman.”

She begins to laugh again and you feel a moment of hesitation. When you look down to her thighs you decide to take leave and slide your hand down, far, feeling her naked thigh and an immediate shiver followed by a cessation of laughter.

“How romantic are you?” she asks.

The only exchange is breath to breath, exhalation and elevation of heartbeats thundering in your chest and possibly hers, as evidenced by the sight of the rise and fall of her tits beneath her t-shirt.  You move your hand further up, and lean over her, looking into her eyes, the bluest eyes. You see the blue Starry Night, the black of the sun when stared at for far too long, streaks of gray from the center rose to the outer expanses of white. She gazes into yours and her breath washes over you again, tinted with the same familiar aromas and reminding you of the sweat on your cheek, her hands pulling your neck toward her just a short while ago.  You remember the beginning as a chance encounter in the desert, at a gas station, and through some miracle of awkward charm and out-of-town mystique she agreed to let you thank her with dinner. A boisterous Greek dinner and red wine, followed by beer and your poor dart throwing skills bested by hers.

“I play a lot,” she’d said.  “There’s not much else to do.”

“You hustled me.”

“Did I?  Well, I didn’t know we were playing for anything.”

“We have to play for something.  What do you want?”

She chuckled and won another two and three quarters of a match before falling off her stool and beginning her laugh extravaganza.  When you picked her up you reached to caress her face and asked if she’d decided what she wanted.  She nodded and your lips reached for hers, more eager, perhaps, than she’d expected, remaining out of sync for a minute or two until you found your rhythm and began feeling the melody, parting your lips, coming together, hot breaths and your hands around her back, down toward her ass, one you knew you recognized as unfuckwithable when you saw her wearing the jeans at the gas station. Standing alone, apart from the bar patrons, leaning against a chalkboard and coating her hair and back in dust, the minutes pass, and you tell her to come back with you.

“We haven’t finished,” she says.

“I’ll give this one to you,” and when you said that she’d begun to laugh again, rubbing her hand along your ribs, right in the spot where you had fallen upon a rock not twelve hours before. Her teeth dimly shown in the gloom of the dart corner and you decided you’d had enough darkness and turn her toward the light, to see her smile and the sheen of her skin.

“I’m staying nearby and I won’t be here tomorrow,” you told her. “Why don’t you come with me, tonight?”

“That’s bold.”

“It’s not everyday I meet a beautiful blonde in the desert.”

She placed her arms around your neck and kissed you again, and said: “Lead the way, desert man.”

Your giddiness knew no bounds as you walked the few blocks to your motel, and found your way up the stairs, pausing only to rub your hand over her shoulder or ass or hips and once stopping to kiss her neck because you told her it called to you out there beneath the moonlight.

“I’m romantic enough,” you tell her, and then take a vow of momentary silence as your hand navigates the folds of the skirt, up toward her crotch, your lips and hers melding and moist tongues rubbing over one another until at last you feel the point where her thighs meet and press your palm into her right inner thigh, guiding her to move it aside. When you reach her pussy and rub your hand along her clothed mound you feel the evening dew, and see her close her eyes for a moment.

“Baby,” is all she whispers.  “Baby.”

“My name,” you say.

“Vic.”

“Good,” and without hesitation you pick her up and place her at the foot of the bed, laying her down and bringing her legs together before you. Her clothes remain except for the nimblest of fingers sliding her black panties down, feeling them curl as the cotton is dragged over her warm flesh, rolled and yanked until they are past the knees and down toward the ankles and thrown across the room for comically horny effect. She smiles at this and then tenses when you kneel before her and move her skirt up to her waist, exposing the softest chestnut down of the supplest mound and warming your every sense of manhood until you are swelled to capacity and driven by the sort of madness known only in the moment and in the presence of such a beautiful, luscious pussy.

You bring your finger to her and slide it in, deep, curling upward and hoping to feel her react just a bit, which she does, and she brings her hands to her thighs as you do so. You massage her slowly, raising the temperature degree by degree, aching and waiting to see what it will take, how far you must take her. She begins to tighten her thighs and the glorious ass beneath, and you venture forth, bringing your fingers into her and feeling her react, watching which does what and waiting to hear those magical words:

“Oh, God.  Don’t stop.”

Far too eager, thoughts become short and sweet, and movements cease to be romantic as they take on the immediacy of your need, of your desire for more and her cries in the room. If she can laugh then she can cry out when you part her and finally, hungrily, taste her. Your neck stiffens for a moment when she takes your short hair in her hands and you collect yourself to begin at the top, at the soft nubble of a button just below the cushion of hair around it, and take it between your lips, suckling and stimulating her inside simultaneously, feeling her thighs clench and squirm around you, the tentacles of Medusa writhing in beautiful agony. She writhes and breathes before you and the assault on your senses overwhelms you. Every inhaled breath drives you slide into her faster and faster, using your tongue and lips with all the skill and luck you can muster. Her breaths quicken as your assault on her mind causes her to cry out, finally, loudly, and escalates her to the highest perch, your heaven and hers, your union of chemical and electrical reactions no smaller or less explosive than the ecstacy of the first meeting of Adam and Eve.

The chirp of her staccato breath fills the space and you lean back, removing your shirt so as to feel your chest and stomach rugs slide along her thighs and wet pussy, sliding yourself like the serpent, the primordial beast, reaching for her mouth and placing your fingers before her, keeping your vow of silence. She tastes takes you in slowly, then whole, tasting herself between shallow breaths.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” she says, quickly and with no kind regard or concern for emotion. You flip her, like a pancake, a syrupy sweet bundle of warmth, and undo the buttons of her skirt, sliding it toward you and leaving it in a sad slump of a pile on the carpet. Then, you speak.

“Lift your ass up,” you say, without thought or reason, an automatic response trained into your brain by past experience and too much porn for thought. She slides herself back and presents, to you, the ass.

“Fuck me,” she says, and before you have to say it she adds, “Vic.”

The ass.

The ass that you knew you’d spotted, like a hawk in its prime patrolling the sky, seeing the most symmetrical, round, gorgeous cheeks you never dared to dream of. The ass of champions, ass of the class, ass that women the world over worked and failed so hard to obtain. The ass, her ass, positioned before you, and so distracting that your pants and shorts remain on for several seconds longer than should be allowed. You dare not test her patience and immediately remove all articles, bringing your suffocated cock out for air and testing her waters with the slightest of grazes.

You mutter, “Tell me what you want,” as it is now your turn to be short of breath and patience.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, and before she is done you are inside her and the stars streak across your eyes, orange bulbs against a flowered sky, ripples of sheets and blonde monsters in the sea, the shock of wetness and slick flesh parted, the lull of confession and ease of a long, drawn out swim across the lake of your eyes, filled with her modest hourglass figure and this is the moment of a lifetime, the time of life and youth and all that is sweet and beautiful about the existence of the universe.

You have been thrusting into her, consistently and now with increased force, and when you feel the urge strike you bring your hand to her ass and aim for a handprint, a red mark that she mews over, and again, and she does not remark but rather makes cute animal sounds, like ducklings, and puppies, and the chirp of the chicklets, each push into her a marvel of human engineering, each slap a wonder of human endurance, and each unrecognizable groan of your own so foreign you are momentarily convinced there is another man in the room.

In spite of the sounds she doesn’t say a word and her breathy voice continues urging you on, gripping your cock tightly and milking you, goading you to her end but so cruelly forgetting about yours. She does not realize that this is a treat, a rare delight for a man for whom women remain the greatest of mysteries, the most distant of complexities yet to be fully appreciated. This gift will not be so quickly enjoyed nor forgotten even when other women have come and gone for here, tonight, she is the blonde muse, and there will be no rush nor final finale. Such moments are reserved for the night after night after night, when familiarity and far too much time together call for the slow-witted but occasionally thrilling quickie.

“Please,” she begs, and you hold her firmly, tightly.

“Please what?” between thrusts, and “Please what?” again.

“Please fuck me, my pussy.  Please make me come.  Please.”

“Again,” and she repeats herself, and begins to understand your need. Her voice fills the room, your ears ringing with her low utterances and pleading, a birdsong in the night air and you think about a place in your mind, a small dot, a grand world where you are the king, the ruler and master of all things.  In this world you reign benevolently and are rewarded justly for your every great deed and all the while you can still hear her calling to you to fuck her and give it to her and the intermittent moans filling the space begin to burden you until you bring your hand onto her ass once, twice, to break the monotony of her voice with sharp squeaks. You begin to feel yourself tighten, skin becomes like leather, and you realize something that for some reason has never crossed your mind as an event, as a happening, an impossibility when wandering in the clouds but now very real and imminent.

“I’m going to come,” you say, “I’m going to come.”

Moving faster, suddenly aware of the possibility of a terrible mistake, you panic, and you say again, “I’m going to come, turn around!” and you pull out suddenly, leaving her collapsed for a moment until she turns to the side, her face sweaty and in disbelief until she sees you approach her and crawls towards you, suddenly aware and also seemingly panicking, as if some great moment in time will be lost if something is not done quickly. With little hesitation she kneels before you on the bed, t-shirt still tightly wrapped around the golden tits, and takes you into her mouth, where only the slightest sensation causes an eruption so grand and ground-breaking that you hold her for support, trembling like a child waiting alone at a bus stop in the snow, seeing his short life flash before his eyes in the snow flurries swirling around and inexplicably warm and moist as they envelop him whole and then vanish into a vast darkness, an endless void, a dot in your skull that was once a kingdom now reduced to ash and rubble, emptiness, a nonexistence so wonderful that were it not for the oncoming lights of a train you would remain in this place forever.

Then there is a loss of senses, of running water, of the pops of a cannon. Before your knees buckle she pats your thigh, and you step back to see her hold her hand over her mouth. She looks up, breathing again, breathing deeply, and then she lets out a chuckle before standing and retreating to the bathroom. You lie back on the bed and collect yourself as you look on at your socks, made of wool and selected for their practicality in the great expanses of the California deserts, but not very appealing. You listen to water running, then her footsteps returning to you.

“I’m glad you stopped,” she says.

“Did you come?” She smiles and says she had, but in the hyperaware state of post-orgasm you detect an insincerity to her tone, a flighty misdirection of contentment.

When she begins to collect her clothes you stand and put on your shorts, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“You’re leaving? It’s the middle of the night, it’s early.”

“Yea, I have to go. I have to get going.”

“We just got started. I can go buy some condoms and come back.” You unslyly glance at her tits, barely loved, never seen.

“No, I have to go. I’m sorry. I forgot I have work tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? I can stay. I have nowhere to go. We can do something tomorrow.”

“No,” she tells you.  “You continue your adventure,” and she leaves you with a smile, and the twinkle of her blue eyes, the only blue eyes you have ever had in your calm, adventurous life.