Текст книги "Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2"

Автор книги: Miss Izzy

Соавторы: Suzanna Kusuma,Amir Muhammed,John Burdett,Lee Yew Moon,Andrew Penney,O Thiam Chin,Dawn Farnham,Amirul Ruslan,Ricky Low,Richard Lord
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

She bent over more to let me moisten her crevice with saliva, yet there was no need. She had already thoughtfully applied lubricant and I found myself hardening again, ready to caress the rosy petals of this Everywoman’s lower mouth.

Instinctive as a diver, I entered carefully, my member raised like a shellfish trident, the tool used to prise loose the pearl of an arching clitoris.

I fitted and rode her standing, working the hump-backed mammal into deep water, riding the wave of our lust without fear of failing, until I came to the precipice of climax and withdrew, controlling myself a little, then flipping her over like the underside of a ribbed crayfish. Her silk-dressed back now skewered gently to the top of the sofa chair, I opened her legs gently again, exploring wet loins up to her waist with hands carefully spreading the silk and petticoat cotton. Then, down-kneeling, I kissed and tongued the red anemone within that sea-crevice, finding her taste as authentic as the brine of the sea.

I stood and entered again, from the front now, looking into her eyes which met mine equally and with happiness as I thrust again and again, fully fountaining, releasing my milky beer and merging guttural yeseswith the reciprocal moans she was uttering.

If a man has limits, these are not found in a woman who can still ache on for an interminable time, imploring her diver to go deeper and deeper. I tried and tried and then failed happily, until there was nothing left of my white blow to eke out for either of us. Spent, I lay across her like an octopus, limp on a hoard of sea-catch, joined to the mother-lode and a larger sense of the globe than what I had previously allowed myself to experience. As I came back to consciousness, I felt her arms like soft feelers at my back. The lit aquarium continued to gurgle and the fish schools did their jazz-jive to DVD music in the background.

‘June. I feel incredible.’ We came back to the couch.

‘This hang-bokwas my mother’s,’ she said. It’s special. I don’t really wear it much. It’s mainly for special occasions, but tonight I wanted to wear it for you. Even Wang hasn’t seen it.’

I felt special. ‘I will always treasure this,’ I said. Then she poured me more Mokgeolli. I now realized why this ritual was done with the right hand holding the bottle and left hand on the elbow. This was clearly to make sure the hang-bok’s sleeve didn’t drip into the wine cup.

‘Actually, it is a bit old and delicate. I never made love with it on before.

I thought it would be a fun idea, something a sensitive man like you would appreciate. But let me go and take it off now. Okay?’

With that, she disappeared into the bedroom. I sat there feeling pleased with myself so I took another slice of the pizza-pancake and washed it down with wine.

Soon she was back wearing a matching bathrobe. ‘You must be hungry’ she said. I nodded, but to tell the truth, I was fully satiated on a deeper level.

It didn’t matter now whether or not I ate food.

‘Let me finish the pasta.’ She did her work quite quickly and allowed me to mind-drift for a while.

‘Hey, I recognize this furniture. Is it from Wang’s warehouse?’

‘Yes, it is. A gift.’ She didn’t say more.

Before long, she had brought two steaming mountains of curlicue pasta with sauce, made room on the table and then proceeded to put the first few forkfuls into my mouth. After getting me lovingly started, she proceeded with her own and began to eat with concentration. We didn’t talk, but she looked up from time to time to smile at me.

Dinner done, I tried to get up and clear the plates, but she shook her head. ‘Leave them,’ and dumped mine on top of hers at the end of the coffee-table.

‘Let’s drink,’ she said. We poured again for each other, said ‘One shot’ and downed our cups… again and again.

From then on, we passed the night hardly speaking but nestled together in our matching robes, watching the dance of the pretty fish and becoming tipsier and tipsier until I passed out on her shoulder.

I woke mid-morning and found myself nestled nakedly against an equally naked mountain. She had somehow transferred me to her bed and she was still snoring lightly beside me. I pulled back the sheet and looked at the whole side of her bulging body. She looked beautiful, still.

Beauty, I thought, is just a mental construction of emotions felt for its object. Beauty shifts and changes like weather, according to the eye of the beholder. Beauty is electricity lighting the lamp and illuminating the fish tank.

I would never be able to think of a fat person in the old light again, I realized, and ran my hand over her rump to reassure myself that this realization was indeed real and would last.

The touch of my hand climbing up and down June’s sleeping coastline began to tickle her and, suddenly, she woke with a start.

‘Oh, Gerald, are you still here? What happened? What time is it?’

‘I think we’ve overslept.’ There was a digital alarm clock on my side of the bed. ‘It’s 11.45.’

‘What? Mr Wang will kill me! What time is your flight?’

‘One-thirty,’ I answered.

‘Hurry up. Get dressed. We must go to the hotel and pack your things.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I could stay on a day longer.’

‘No, no. You cannot. Mr Wang is not available. You must get up. We have to get your papers signed, remember?’

Conscience struck. ‘Oh yes, the contract. I had completely forgotten that.’

‘Quick now. Jump in the shower.’ Reluctantly I obeyed orders, showered and shaved when I saw an electric razor there, and then splashed on some cologne from June’s shelf.

APHRODITE
Suzanna Kusuma, Indonesia

Scene 1: Sunset

Under corrugated roofs, silky bed sheets, her whispers and sounds are carried off in the hiss of traffic from nightfall towards dawn. Sun falls.

With it, streaks of fog lurk and hover over quiet alleyways. Mice skitter around plundering morsels of leftovers. The wasted moon overlooks. A drooping silent witness to the frolics… A watchful tower to the jealousies and rivalries spurred by her whimsical gestures that entice and provoke men who find in her both the goddess they worship and the witch they would torture and kill.

Kali Jodohis rows of unlicensed shag houses along the heavily polluted Ciliwung River, somewhere in West Jakarta district. The river stench mingled with cheap alcohol lures bystanders and travellers alike. Curiously drawn to the bright yellow spots of kerosene lamps burning through gaps of asymmetrical doors (invitingly loose and fragile), motorcyclists buzz in and out of the alleyways while quietly picking up and dropping off passengers.

Further into the alley, in some hidden nooks and corners, are glimpsed silhouettes of luxury cars which at the sign of dawn would swerve quietly away, leaving their spots empty for food peddlers. It is also not uncommon to find police cars among these luxury cars.

The dense flow and murmur of old Ciliwung River permeates the night .

And as the moon wanes, the inhabitants of Kali Jodohready themselves for the judgment of daylight bursting through.

Scene 2: Domesticated

At night, he seeks the woman who tantalizes his cock with her tongue. He likes to fix his gaze to the clouds as she makes her way up and down, up and down.

His children call him ‘daddy’ the way Americans do to sweet, doting fathers. He bought them a puppy one occasion-less day, despite his wife’s approval of pets. He had come thrice inside her mouth that day. They named him Bruno.

He convinced his wife his wife children should learn the blessings of having other living creatures to add on to the joy of living. The same night he made love to his wife and unselfishly took him time waiting for her orgasm while all along reliving the memories of the tongue teasing, and teasing, and teasing. His explosions rapidly approach as her swift, unyielding embrace commands. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, but inside her.

Scene 3: Conquest

Soft undulations of mountains and valleys he caresses with his bare hands every day. His eyes are not as privileged as his hands—though you can argue such is his privilege. More importantly, however, is his gift of subtlety. He is quite used to women who are liars—when asked if they are comfortable, they say, ‘Oh yes, perfectly’, with their arms and legs pressed tightly on the side as though they were fitting into a tube. He would then cover them over with a piece of silk and let the slippery flow of the fabric persuade them to be just as airy and slacken their rigid pose. Soft feather works beautifully, too, for the more glamorous sort who are not ticklish and enjoy the voluptuous teasing.

He communicates mainly by touching. While his fingers massage, he listens to the skin as it contracts… softens… relaxes… opens… widens… quivers… twitches… jerks… and he responds to them appropriately, as attentive lover-devotees do. The shyest and most rigid in turn relinquish their defensive armor: unhook their bras, wiggle down their panties, untie their hair knot. Not surprisingly, they feel liberated in consequence.

Lying naked on the futon, his blindness emboldens them temporarily before they re-emerge in the outside world fully clothed and prim. Women such as these are usually his regular customers.

Desire is a thing disguised in various forms. He delights greatly in the hunt. Usually this means he needs to probe in so many ways under equally many pretexts. It is the fact that he sees with his hands that he would go beyond the border-climbing up on the mounds, delving deep into the folds—and is excused for it. He is not worried about trespassing. His main concern is the period of time he’s allowed within.

The moment he trespasses, every gesture and movement is critical. His touch needs to feign innocence (for how could he be excused otherwise?), but yet be calculated to catch it unguarded. He strives to stay, to linger, and to score. The ‘game of hide-and-seek’, he likes to call it.

A sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh, a groan—he wills and coaxes desire out of its cave. Behold the beautiful beast being exposed, reacting like a gnarling tigress, a strutting peacock, a bewildered dove, a hissing snake, a fiery lioness…

To each, he bestows a distinctive name wherein his victory is marked.

He selects these names with utmost care, for they represent that one moment of release and potential, never to be repeated. He is a proud keeper of these names—their ultimate sole guardian.

Little do the ladies of Jakarta’s most elite class know that the blind masseur they frequent regularly in one of Kemang’s exclusive spas (known and open to selected members only) is a father of three children and a respected member of his village near Malang—a man known for his quiet, elegant demure, eloquence and not insignificant contribution to the local projects (irrigation, mosques, schools) in the village and neighbouring regions.

Scene 4: Possession

Sometimes I really ask too much of you. I want to breathe you, I want to smile you, I want to linger you. It’s the sweetness of love that I lick and suck till the juices run dry. (They never do run dry, and I don’t ever get enough of you). You must be exhausted by me. I’m sorry for that.

I’m all yours completely and entirely—I like to say it though I don’t know what that means. I like the sound of it. I like the idea of it. I like the idea of you. And me. Being us.

Some days, I feel you are not quite with me and that’s when I scramble around fidgeting; what other things could you possibly have outside of me?

Outside of us—don’t really know what ‘us’ means, though I like to stress it.

There’s only us and more of us to come. It’s an ancient thing, I know you would say, but so profound, isn’t it—you and me becoming us?

I know I’m idiotic, but I really can’t stand the idea of you not thinking of me, or not having me in your thoughts. How should that be allowed? I’m all yours completely and so are you mine. Just as we are one when we make love (how you embrace and grip me inside you!), why should it be any different when we are not in bed?

I don’t like, I hate, how you lean towards a person as though at any time he can swoon you helplessly away. Don’t you see my panic, my doom? I’m frantic; I know you will say that. I know half the things you will say—don’t you see how well I know you? I am you, I am you, I am you. Now you roll your eyes and look away, and I sigh deeply for I have lost you again.

‘Let’s go to Puncak?’ No.

‘Bandung?’ No.

‘Bali, Lombok, Medan?’ No, No, No.

‘Let’s get married?’ (Two scenarios. One: you bulge your eyes at me and walk away, I run after you, pretend I haven’t said anything. Two: you laugh and say ‘Sure’, I quickly get on my knees, kneel and kiss you all over.) Only instead: ‘Let’s catch a movie at Plaza Indonesia?’ and you let me grab your hand and lead you along.

Tomorrow, surely, you will be more mine than today.

Scene 5: The Sea

Once upon a time there lived a village in the Indo-Malay region who worshipped the Sea. The latter, with its tempestuous mood swings, is a vast forbidding presence to the villagers who cower themselves away upon seeing a sheer flash of lightning in its horizon. Trembling, they would cover their heads, shut their eyes tight, mutter prayers and chants. It is not obvious what it is of the Sea that they fear, for they settle quite a distance away from the coast and they certainly don’t rely on it for their living. They are neither swimmers nor fishermen.

But for every little disaster that falls upon them, it is the image of the Sea’s silvery claws crawling underneath and its thundering wrath that shake their conscience and make them kneel for forgiveness—though it is not apparent what misdeeds they have done to earn this reprimand.

Once the Sea stole upon them and took their animals, children, elders and weak ones. Convinced it was the end of their days, they waited for the Sea to sweep their remaining lot away.

Weeks and months passed without work, without sleep. But the Sea remained calm and unaffected. Coupled with clear blue skies twinkling shine on its undulating surface, it seemed content and pleased even.

Observing this agreeable mood, it was then agreed among the villagers that what they needed to do was offer gifts to the Sea. It was also agreed that it should be done at each complete cycle of the moon. With this resolution, the villagers recommenced their daily routine, taking comfort from the ritual sacrifices they communally made to the Sea.

On a slab of rock beaten by waves, kneeling over the sprawled lifeless body, he caressed and admired the soft features of her nose, mouth and cheeks. His palms pressed on her breasts, then her belly, futilely stroking and massaging them. As he entered her, he met his face with hers turned everlastingly silent towards the sea and whispered in his native tongue his desire and worship of her. He stayed with her till dusk fell, when he had to continue on with his journey southwards to his people.

She blinked to a ray of sunlight resting on her wet eyelids. Quietness surrounded her. For a long while, she lay, unknown to herself if she were living or dead. Gradually, she heard sounds coming from the Sea and felt the wind on her cheeks. She was soon awakened to her arms, limbs, hands and feet. The entire weight of her body came to her. Feeling cold, weak and thirsty, she finally gathered herself up and treaded her way slowly towards the island.

It was her mother who first saw and quickly covered her naked body with a large piece of cloth. The night she was to be given to the Sea, she had said goodbye to her only daughter. The woman she now saw was not her daughter. She knew this as she led her into the house and rested her in her daughter’s bed. The next day she was presented to the villagers who gazed at her with wonder and awe. Not a few thought of her as the incarnated goddess of the Sea or, if that’s too big a thought, at least as the one chosen and favored by the Sea—but to what purpose they were not sure. She was feared and admired all at once.

Months passed. The woman who was her mother continued to care for her until it became clear to the villagers that a child of the Sea was to be expected.

They built a tall house for her to live with her son, with an altar erected at the front terrace for the villagers to offer prayers and sacrifices. She chose its location, on a steep cliff jutting outwards to the Sea. Every day, mother and son would climb down the cliff to the shore. Her son was nurtured by the Sea and grew from the Sea. They shared and taught what they knew to the villagers, who remained timid but, all the same, curious. Eventually, many of them learned to swim and, with their fine carpentry skills, built rafts and boats to venture further into the Sea. In no time, the entire village was converted to swimmers and fishermen who no longer trembled before the Sea, but embraced her moods along with the riches she yielded.

Some nights lit by the full moon, the woman would be seen on the shore with her knees bent and spread wide apart. Waves, one after another, lapped in and out, over her legs, thighs and belly, as she hums her song of gratitude, homage and desire for her ethereal lover.

On these nights, many women lose virginity to their pining lovers and many widows seek comfort from friends and strangers alike. And the sounds coming from the Sea gently rock and cradle the villagers to sleep.

THE PHOENIX TATTOOS
Richard Lord, Singapore

It was probably because he was at Spinelli’s that day. He was really a Coffee Bean person. His drink was cappuccino, and neither Spinelli’s nor Starbucks has the right cup for cappuccino. Their cups are all tall and thin, so you get all the milk and foam at once and only reach the coffee when you near the end of your drink.

For that reason alone, he rarely went to Spinelli’s. And, deeply addicted to habit, he hated altering his routine. Strange, unwelcome things often happened to him when he broke routine. Which may be why on that day, having gone to Spinelli’s for his cappuccino, he had that “episode.” While manoeuvering the cup so that he could draw a good swallow of coffee along with the thick clouds of foam, he happened to look over and noticed her. She was pretty, of course, but so were many of the other girls sitting there, or walking by, some much prettier. But his eyes locked on this one. Wait a minute, wasn’t she…? No, that wasn’t her, but… suddenly, it came back to him, at least a part of it. That one time. The two of them together, and fantastic sex.

He couldn’t remember her name, or where he had met her, even where they had gone to make love… well, have sex. It couldn’t really have been love. It was more like… Like?

No, none of that came back to him; but the lovemaking was indelibly printed on his brain. As he gazed at her across the room, he recalled that so pale body, every lovely contour: the smallish but well-shaped breasts, the low sweep of her back proceeding up in a gentle slope to her buttocks, the dark wedge of hair between her thighs.

Just as he started considering that it might have been simply a dream that this girl had turned up in—maybe he had once seen her on the street or in a mall and his flash craving for her returned in a dream—she looked up. The expression on her face, stun and bitterness together, told him it was not just a dream; she hadbeen there, wherever it was. His eyes and brow scrunched up, as if to ask her where they knew each other from. But she instantly turned away, looked around for another table and, not finding one in the crowded cafe, simply pivoted her chair so her back was to him.

He kept staring, however, and on seeing her back, that other key detail suddenly flashed. Yes, how could he have ever forgotten that? The phoenix tattoo, double-headed, there on the small of her back, on the left side. Hypnotic. In such vibrant colours it seemed to be dancing slowly in its flames, even as she lay absolutely still. And it had an identical twin on the crown of her right breast.

Yes, the two tattoos. The thing was, they weren’t just adornments: they played such an important role in their lovemaking. By just pressing them, he could make her instantly aroused, or intensify the pleasure. On that day—or evening, or whenever—when they had been together, he would lean forward during the coupling and kiss the tattoo on her breast while gently pressing the other on her back. She’d start to climax, and he would press harder on the one tattoo while kissing the breast tattoo more intensely. She would come, screaming, digging the blunt side of her fingers into his neck, then drag them down his back, pull at his hair with her teeth, maybe bite his neck or ear as he lifted his head from her breast.

All of this he could remember so acutely. Yet nothing else.

She was waiting for someone, a friend apparently, and that second girl arrived within minutes. She must have told this friend about the episode, because after a short, heads-lowered exchange, the friend looked up and floated him a dirty look. Hell, he must have done something terrible at the time—but he hadn’t the slightest inkling of what it was.

He couldn’t keep from staring over at them, so he edged his chair sideways, in the other direction, and tried to busy himself. But this whole thing was beginning to gnaw further inside him, upsetting the carefully arranged furniture of habit and planning. Nothing like this had ever happened to him, that some details of such an incident remained so vivid—he could see, hear, even taste them right there—and that he completely forgot other details at least as important.

He pulled out a notebook, found a clean page and started sketching the tattoo. As he drew, he recalled how just kissing the tattoo on her lower back had brought her to fierce arousal, how her legs would thrash and her butt gyrate as he kissed her there again and again, his lips and tongue pressing into her pliant flesh.

He pulled out a red pen to add more colour, more “activity” to his drawing. He only had the black and the red, while the tattoos themselves flaunted other rich colours: ochre, green, gold, purple… one he couldn’t even name. But he was able to come up with a good facsimile, considering his meagre materials. He smiled: yeah, not at all bad. Maybe he should have listened to less practical people and gone into graphic art instead of law. He would certainly not have made as much money as he did now, but he might actually be happier.

When he finished, he turned back and looked over to their table. They were still talking, this time ignoring him. He added a few last strokes to the drawing; yes, that’s pretty close to the way it looked. He glanced over at them again. Even from this angle, he could see how alluring the girl was. The way her shift pulled against her body as she sat in the chair made him think of that same body naked, writhing there in the bed against the moist, pink sheets.

Wherever it had taken place.

He closed the notebook, finished his cappuccino in one long gulp and thought of just leaving, taking a wide turn away from them as he exited.

Almost immediately, however, he realised this was impossible. How could he walk away from this woman with whom he had apparently shared something incredible, yet lost so much of. He had tofind out what this was all about, or at least make more of an attempt than that feeble questioning look he had thrown her.

He pulled out the notebook again, carefully tore out the page with the drawing, rose and moved quickly over to their table. The friend looked up first; the girl herself gave him just a cursory glance, turned, looked down and started twisting the edges of a serviette into tiny cones. “Could you please get out of here? We’re having a conversation, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Actually, I did notice,” he replied. “But I wanted to give you something.” He placed the drawing down on the table, right in front of the girl. Her friend looked puzzled. The girl turned to her friend and said something in a soft voice; he tried, but was unable to make out more than a few words. The friend nodded, stood up, started moving away. About a metre from the table, she spun around and pointed to her watch.

“Fifteen minutes,” the girl said, shaking her head, then turned back to him. “Okay, you can sit down if you like.” He nodded, pulled out the nearest chair to hers and started to slide it a little closer. “Not there,” she snapped.

“Take that one,” pointing to the chair on the opposite side of the table. He shrugged and settled himself into that seat.

She picked up the drawing and stared at it. Her face indicated that she was impressed. “That’s your tattoo, isn’t it?” She nodded. “You have it here,” he pointed to the spot on his own back; she nodded again. “And the other one… higher up, on the other side.”

She looked at him fully for the first time since she had first spotted him.

“Yes, so what?”

He shifted uneasily, but allowed himself to place his hands on the table.

“Do you know who I am?” He tried to control his voice, to sound calm, but a slight note of desperation slipped in.

“Of course. What do you think, that I’d forget something like that? Shit, you have an even lower opinion of me than I thought.”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just… Alright, now how can I explain this?” He searched for the next path to follow. “Do you know my name?” She snorted out a derisive laugh. “No, I don’t. You didn’t want to tell me, remember? You said, ‘Just call me David Beckham.’”

“No, I don’t remember, that’s the problem. I just don’t… I mean, there are so many details there from that… time together. So vivid up here.” He pointed to his head. “But then so much I just can’t recall.”

“Like?”

“Like… just your name. Did you tell me your name?”

“Of course, I did. I guess I was just too naive back then. I trusted guys.” He felt a surge of free-floating guilt. Yes, he probably had treated her terribly. That may be why he was experiencing this bout of selective amnesia.

He’d read somewhere how the brain often filters out things that are especially unpleasant, or that we’re horribly ashamed of. A defence mechanism that helps us to move on. But what horrible thing could he have done? She didn’t seem to bear any traces of physical damage. What could he have done to her inside?

“ Any-thing else?” She snapped his contemplation with the harshness of this question.

“Yeah: a lot else. Where did it happen? Here in Singapore? At your place, at the uni hostel, a friend’s? Or were we somewhere on holiday?” She stung him with a look that said such an insulting question deserved only dire contempt. She turned, the bitter look still on her face, to check a message on her handphone. “I have to go,” she said icily without bothering to turn back to him.

But he couldn’t let it end there. “I’m sorry, but this has never happened to me before. Hey, I’m only twenty-seven. I usually get praised for my good memory. But I really can’t remember too much about that time we were…

together. Just the… well, the mechanics really and… your tattoos. Those tattoos were like some hypnotic medallions.”

“I see, so all you remember is the sex? Getting inside me, pumping like crazy, the stormy kisses, all that. Pushing all the right buttons, pulling all the right cords. Isn’t that what you guys call it?”

“Well, I also remember the colour of the sheets; they were pink, right?

And that ugly bedside lamp… then there was this thin rug which was a horrendous shade of green, and…” He looked up; it had suddenly come back to him. “And you said you would take me the next day to where you got your tattoos.” She said nothing, didn’t nod, but her narrowed eyes told him he was right. “You said you wanted me to get two just like them. You said it was…

necessary, that it was part of our being together.”

“So you don’t forget everything. You have a good memory for what you want to remember.”

“I want to remember it all. I want to remember your name, where we were, why we were there, how we got that far…” He stopped, suddenly realising that he had swept past what could be the key to the whole episode.

“And… why didn’t I go and get the tattoos?”

Her eyes narrowed further, as if they were turning into small creatures—mythical beings, half-reptile, half-whatever—going into attack mode. He actually started to get scared, thinking she might be able to physically attack him, take revenge for some wrong that he couldn’t remember but deeply deserved to be punished for.

“The pact,” she whispered, and then smiled. The smile looked like it tasted of strychnine. But it seemed as if this was a taste she enjoyed.

Here, he closed his own eyes, tightly. For one thing, he didn’t want to see her face at this moment. But more importantly, he needed to dig deep within himself to recover what kind of pact they could have made. If it was still there, he would find it. Nothing. He opened his eyes again, slowly, half-believing she’d be gone when he looked. But she was still there, of course.

However, the smile was gone; this time, there were tears trickling down her cheeks. As they reached her mouth, she opened it slightly and eased her tongue out. It seemed like she wanted to swallow them, to wash the acrid taste from her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t… what pactwas this?” She closed her mouth tightly, her stare fixed on him, and the tears seemed to stop instantly. “Look, I’m reallysorry if I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean that at all. I just wanted to… to get the whole story on what happened there.”

“There’s no story,” she answered. “There’s just ways in and ways out.” She glanced again at her handphone, more as an excuse than to read any messages there. “I have to go.”

She stood, started pulling her shopping bags together, then turned slightly to grab something off the next chair. Only at that moment did the impulse seize him; he acted on it without hesitation. As she was turned slightly to the right, he lunged over and touched the spot where he thought he remembered the tattoo being. He was, as it were, spot on. At the initial touch, she stiffened.