The cherry blossoms danced in the garden breeze, their petals whispering my wishes to the wind. Far from the city apartment, the air in my home was thick with a year's worth of unspoken longings. My phone lay face down on the nightstand, a silent, nerve-wracking presence. "Me too. How about tomorrow?" I had sent it an hour ago, and the silence since was deafening.
"Mali," I sighed. Her sweet name means "jasmine" in Thai. Every shadow in the room seemed to hold a memory of her, a whisper of her husky laugh, the brush of her cool fingers. A year. A whole year of trying to fill a void that only she could occupy, a void evident after the relationship with Liam, a regular client, had evolved far beyond the transaction and failed.
I felt it so clearly in Bangkok: amidst the chaos of her hometown, Mali's absence had become a dull ache. The separation from Liam, though necessary, felt less like liberation and more like an admission of defeat, a quiet surrender to the fact that no one else could touch the core of me like she did. I looked at the old cherry tree, witness to my love, to my passion…
The buzzing of my phone startled me, making me jump. It was her, perhaps, my future again. "Tomorrow works. My place? Around seven?" A rush of relief, then a tremor of fear. Her place. The apartment she'd moved into after we broke up, the one I'd never seen. It was a step into her new life, a life I hadn't been a part of. "Sounds good," I typed back, my fingers clumsy.
The hours crawled by. I showered, dressed, changed my mind a dozen times, settling on something casual but soft, hoping it conveyed ease, not desperation. My heart was frantic. What would we even say? Would the magic still be there, or had a year of silence and separate lives eroded it beyond repair? At 6:55 PM sharp, I was at her door, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
I knocked. The door opened almost immediately. Mali stood there, her beauty more devastating than I remembered. She wore faded jeans and a simple shirt that outlined her athletic build. Her long, raven-black hair, gleaming under a soft light, framed her beautiful, freckled face with high cheekbones. Her magnetic, cat-like eyes held a flicker of apprehension mirroring my own.
"Cherry lips," she said, her voice a little drier than I remembered, but still with that unique, husky lilt. "Pretty eyes," I managed, my voice a whisper. It wasn't the dramatic reunion I'd repeatedly imagined, but something more raw, more real. We just stood there for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between us, punctuated by the faint hum of the building's old pipes.
Finally, she stepped back, gesturing me in. "Come in. Orange juice? Or something else?" Walking into the living room, I said, "Orange juice is fine." It was sparsely furnished, but warm, with cushions on the floor and a low table. It felt… like her. Unfussy, authentic. She handed me a glass, brushing my fingers, an immediate recognition of contact that sent shivers down my arms.
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the space between us charged with unspoken history. "So," she began, her gaze fixed on the wall behind me, "a year." I stared at my glass. "I missed you." The words were out raw before I could censor them. She finally looked at me, her eyes softening. "God, I missed you too." A small, sad smile touched her lips. "It was… stupid what happened."
"It was me," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "My head was a mess with you and… everything. I let things get complicated. I pushed you away." The truth, for the first time, tasted both bitter and cleansing. I looked at her, truly looked, seeing the subtle lines of strain around her eyes, the vulnerability she tried to hide. She'd felt my same deep pain: our broken hearts.
Mali nodded slowly. "Clients are clients. Sometimes they linger, but I felt like I was second. And I refused to be second, Susana. Not for you. Not for anyone." Her voice was quiet but firm, the pride in her unwavering. "It hurt like hell to walk away. But I had to. For me." My eyes stung. "I know. You were right; I felt it so clearly after The Velvet…" My voice trailed off.
Her gaze held mine, intense and searching. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, dissolving the last vestiges of tension. "Good," she said, her voice dropping to that wonderfully slurred, husky tone, the one that used to unravel me. She leaned forward, closing the distance between us, her hand gently cupping my face. I leaned into her touch, my eyes fluttering closed.
She reached for my glass, placing it gently on the table, then her fingers, cool and slender, traced the line of my jaw, sliding into my hair and pulling me closer. Her mouth, soft, met mine. It started slow, tentative, a question and an answer, a gentle exploration of forgotten landscapes. Then the hunger erupted, and my hands went to her waist, pulling her onto my lap.
Her thighs straddled me, her body against mine, a perfect fit. Her lips devoured mine, urgent and demanding, her tongue seeking mine with a desperate need. Everything else faded. The anxieties, the unanswered questions, the year of separation, all dissolved in the potent current that flowed between us. Her fingers were already at the buttons of my shirt, nimble and quick.
Mine, equally eager, found the hem of her shirt. Clothes became an unnecessary barrier, shed with a frantic urgency that bespoke months of deprivation. We were a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths, a symphony of gasps and soft moans. "Oh… Mali. I want you so bad," I breathed, pulling back. "You have me, Ana," she whispered back, her voice thick. "Every damn inch, love."
"Mali," I sighed. Her sweet name means "jasmine" in Thai. Every shadow in the room seemed to hold a memory of her, a whisper of her husky laugh, the brush of her cool fingers. A year. A whole year of trying to fill a void that only she could occupy, a void evident after the relationship with Liam, a regular client, had evolved far beyond the transaction and failed.
I felt it so clearly in Bangkok: amidst the chaos of her hometown, Mali's absence had become a dull ache. The separation from Liam, though necessary, felt less like liberation and more like an admission of defeat, a quiet surrender to the fact that no one else could touch the core of me like she did. I looked at the old cherry tree, witness to my love, to my passion…
The buzzing of my phone startled me, making me jump. It was her, perhaps, my future again. "Tomorrow works. My place? Around seven?" A rush of relief, then a tremor of fear. Her place. The apartment she'd moved into after we broke up, the one I'd never seen. It was a step into her new life, a life I hadn't been a part of. "Sounds good," I typed back, my fingers clumsy.
The hours crawled by. I showered, dressed, changed my mind a dozen times, settling on something casual but soft, hoping it conveyed ease, not desperation. My heart was frantic. What would we even say? Would the magic still be there, or had a year of silence and separate lives eroded it beyond repair? At 6:55 PM sharp, I was at her door, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
I knocked. The door opened almost immediately. Mali stood there, her beauty more devastating than I remembered. She wore faded jeans and a simple shirt that outlined her athletic build. Her long, raven-black hair, gleaming under a soft light, framed her beautiful, freckled face with high cheekbones. Her magnetic, cat-like eyes held a flicker of apprehension mirroring my own.
"Cherry lips," she said, her voice a little drier than I remembered, but still with that unique, husky lilt. "Pretty eyes," I managed, my voice a whisper. It wasn't the dramatic reunion I'd repeatedly imagined, but something more raw, more real. We just stood there for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between us, punctuated by the faint hum of the building's old pipes.
Finally, she stepped back, gesturing me in. "Come in. Orange juice? Or something else?" Walking into the living room, I said, "Orange juice is fine." It was sparsely furnished, but warm, with cushions on the floor and a low table. It felt… like her. Unfussy, authentic. She handed me a glass, brushing my fingers, an immediate recognition of contact that sent shivers down my arms.
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the space between us charged with unspoken history. "So," she began, her gaze fixed on the wall behind me, "a year." I stared at my glass. "I missed you." The words were out raw before I could censor them. She finally looked at me, her eyes softening. "God, I missed you too." A small, sad smile touched her lips. "It was… stupid what happened."
"It was me," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "My head was a mess with you and… everything. I let things get complicated. I pushed you away." The truth, for the first time, tasted both bitter and cleansing. I looked at her, truly looked, seeing the subtle lines of strain around her eyes, the vulnerability she tried to hide. She'd felt my same deep pain: our broken hearts.
Mali nodded slowly. "Clients are clients. Sometimes they linger, but I felt like I was second. And I refused to be second, Susana. Not for you. Not for anyone." Her voice was quiet but firm, the pride in her unwavering. "It hurt like hell to walk away. But I had to. For me." My eyes stung. "I know. You were right; I felt it so clearly after The Velvet…" My voice trailed off.
Her gaze held mine, intense and searching. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, dissolving the last vestiges of tension. "Good," she said, her voice dropping to that wonderfully slurred, husky tone, the one that used to unravel me. She leaned forward, closing the distance between us, her hand gently cupping my face. I leaned into her touch, my eyes fluttering closed.
She reached for my glass, placing it gently on the table, then her fingers, cool and slender, traced the line of my jaw, sliding into my hair and pulling me closer. Her mouth, soft, met mine. It started slow, tentative, a question and an answer, a gentle exploration of forgotten landscapes. Then the hunger erupted, and my hands went to her waist, pulling her onto my lap.
Her thighs straddled me, her body against mine, a perfect fit. Her lips devoured mine, urgent and demanding, her tongue seeking mine with a desperate need. Everything else faded. The anxieties, the unanswered questions, the year of separation, all dissolved in the potent current that flowed between us. Her fingers were already at the buttons of my shirt, nimble and quick.
Mine, equally eager, found the hem of her shirt. Clothes became an unnecessary barrier, shed with a frantic urgency that bespoke months of deprivation. We were a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths, a symphony of gasps and soft moans. "Oh… Mali. I want you so bad," I breathed, pulling back. "You have me, Ana," she whispered back, her voice thick. "Every damn inch, love."
