From 6th of October City to El Tahrir Square and Back


I remember my mental fight I was having with my shaky fingers when I learned that this semester I’d be having a weekly Tourism Guidance lecture in no where else but the Egyptian Museum, the pride of Egyptians. In El Tahrir Square.
The tremble in my fingers didn’t ease on bit (considering the “events” in the same destination I was headed) but spread to every limb and toe.
Still, I was more aware of how restless I was to go. How impatient to get on the bus and explore the unknown streets on my own.
So I stood in front of the mirror for about 10 minutes doing nothing, but staring at my pretty reflection and inwardly steeling myself against my stupid fears. Little as they were, but they DID exist. I am a human being after all and despite the rumors going round, I DO have feelings! And the people around me did not encourage me one bit more and being me, fears and irrational speculations (some of which I am actually ashamed to have ever let myself hear) make me sick in record time.
BUT when Mama, our local Christopher Columbus,offered to tag along with me the first time instead of going alone, I wholeheartedly jumped on the opportunity.

 I soon realized that there is nothing like entering that museum for the first time. The air that seems to cling in that mysterious way to the time when the spectacular exhibits were new and young would hold you still for a long moment.. Then you release your breath and take the first baby-steps, still a little wary of the dominant prestige.
I was suddenly so proud of my identity. My ancestors obviously wanted to leave an imprint in this world, and they single-minded did.

I tell you there is nothing like that first time.
I knew right away that I was in love. And if Dr.Rasha Soliman was in my sight I would have kissed her.

  Just the other Thursday March 22, 2011, I knew for a fact that the green squares on both sides of El Mehwar are actually fields!!??
Of course I know that Egypt has fields all over it, but OUR fields are not really what “fields” look like in my mind. They don’t stretch out for miles like the other fields in other countries. Still, they are beautiful.
The swaying palms, the gleaming green and the sweaty working people.
A sight for sore eyes, indeed.
  The bus moved on its speed as I watched the pretty scenery roll by with wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe, which of course made me look ridiculous. It wasn’t until we reached the end of one of the fields did my heart sink, my mouth snap shut and my eyes dull. In short, I felt ridiculous myself. Because on the wide, beaten stripe of mud that separates the fields, multicoloured plastic bags of RUBBISH piled???
  As if it isn’t enough to have buildings protruding from the green, slowly eroding away fertile soil and ruining the beauty!!
As a citizen, and may that be a hard-working man, or a struggling student, etc, not only do I have the right but DESERVE to have something “nice” in sight on my way back from a tiring day.
The peasants need fresh air around them, generous soil to plant and a good view to look at when the straighten from a crouch.
People need good natural food.
The sight really made me mad. No wonder they spry all sorts of aerosol in fruitless attempts to keep bugs, insects, and most of all the nosy rats out of the fields. OF COURSE, no aerosol would do! and how on earth would it, when rubbish is laying around the grounds from which we EAT.
It should come as no surprise that we suffer strange deceases and have vegetables infected with strange microbes. Add to that the air pollution, the Nile pollution, traffic and people with bad temper.

   The Revolution came to change the bad habits. To teach us a lesson; allowing small things to pile and pile to the point of “no more” would inevitably lead to a disaster.
It made us rekindle the dying hope. And now after weeks of cautious calm I come across THIS.
I don’t know what to call it but “shame”. Really.

  Turning my head away, I came to realized one painful truth.
Take it from me, for the life of you, traveling El Mehwar staring at abused fields is much, MUCH better than what attacked me once I turned my eyes…
The complicated knots of bustling cars, glistening furiously in the sun and filling the length of the other side of the road (the one that take people to Cairo) to the top.
Well, now, the rubbish would eventually roll out of sight and be long forgotten by the time you get off the bus, but the sight of cars trying their very best to stay off each other and the near-fainting, near-going-mad drivers WILL make you cry for hours on end!
And that was to say the LEAST!!
  So deciding to save my tears for a broken heart, a dead relative or bad grades, I quickly turned my head away.
And there it was, the clear fields as if nothing had ever happened…

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Reasons

Why?
That is fairly easy; because I love it. I adore it.

I love my idea of “a writer’s life”, the expression of looking at the far horizons, but really looking into the depth of thoughts, the time at nights that is so sacred in the company of only a pen and papers or the fingertips on a keyboard. Mentally going after each word tying them together, then breaking tie and trying again.
All work to get the desired combination of words.
Ah. Words.
I love how they pull me out of bed after many failed attempts to sleep in order to write. I love the texture of the paper, light, crisp and soft and how it smells. As if something important is about to be written.
Because something always is.
I trace down their ancient history and praise their contribution in making us what we are today.
I even love when a sentence or a whole paragraph look all wrong. My annoyed tongue-click comes followed by the bored motion of scratching out the part I don’t like.
Sometimes it is a single line across, in case I was struck by a change of heart. Sometimes, I find peculiar pleasure in obliterating every last bit of it.
I love how it is always on my mind, an endless string of thoughts describing things. A scene, a time, a feeling, listening to my own my as it carefully plots down the words, without a pause, so good. Fit for a novel.
And I love how they seem to preserve a certain state of mind, express a thought or a stray memory.
I smile at the edge of impatience in them to be written.

My own time is when I am writing all alone, the house dormant around me. The dawn is changing colors outside my window. The Early Risers squeaking the songs of the morn. A single cry of a crow. A low thrumming of a distant motor. But here, inside my room, the silence is so complete it drowns the persistent ticks of the clock. Lifting the pen off the lined page, and listening. To the external sounds and my brainstorming arranging and rearranging the words.
Ah, how I love words.
This relationship is a complex. At times we are gliding along just fine. My ink is generous, the words are satisfyingly cooperative. We are both very happy with this private companionship.
But at times they are crazed. They elude me. They lure me out, knowing that I’d wholeheartedly take the bait, and when I am there at my desk where they want me, they go play hide-and-seek.
Heartless, overpowering little cowards!
I find myself short of breath, short of patience in that pursuit.
When I want a spot of peace or looking to get some sleep…
It’s painful. It’s beautiful. Either way, I love it.
And there is really no one true why to that.
It happens in a moment. It takes you by surprise. And there is no escape.

I know I will never stop, I know this fascination is eternal. In every sentence I like in a book and underline… in everything these glorious words project into my head…
The images… the ideas…
A creation… An end…
A laughter… A tear…
A mockery or a sense of honor…

This is the sum of my secret life with words.
It is a story of adoration that has no end. 

 

Stalker. Abductor. Lover 5 (sequence)

Three days before fate butted in once again…

This is wrong. this is so very wrong 

 Juts like every time every week, it was close to mid night. The full moon lit sky glittered with millions of stars without a cloud to conceal their brilliance. The streets have long since gone silent and not a soul walked the pavements, except for the cats and dogs, but they did not count. And there he was again, kneeling at her window–her door was armored with locks along with most of the windows–, picking the lock, and wondering just how many times he had said that very same thing, and sometimes with a few nasty words thrown in, in vain.

 He knew that by doing this he was crossing all the lines, that he was acting like a psychologically messed-up stalker, which was something he was not. well, he was a stalker all right. just not a mentally ill one. There was a world of difference, even though from another perceptive the two didn’t really lack the ties.
Granted, he dedicated more hours to watch her from where she couldn’t see than he can count. Yes, he was here, because he wanted to know every last detail of her life. Yes, everything she did fascinated him so much that he snapped a picture– how she held her coffee mug, for example, was not by holding it from the handle, but by grasping the china body itself even though he was sure the liquid was boiling in a pot just two seconds ago.Yes, her photos filled the walls of an entire room in his house, and that he hated his assignments now since they were the only thing that kept him from watching her 24/7.
Yes, he took extra care to watch the ends of her every day, her pre-sleep  routine, loving the way she stretched her arms high above her head, clasping the fingers of her hands and yawning as she slid a hand back down her arm to cover her mouth, her hips swaying slowly as if knowing he was watching
.
And yes, of course he knew it was crazy to take such a risk and ridicule all the ways he could easily get caught, but how could he not keep coming back when she, with everything she did and everything she was, represented a brand new dimension of life he never thought would appeal to him? when to him she was life incarnate?
And watching her through spy glasses were too brief to satisfy any part of his curiosity.
He was not mentally ill. He was irrevocably in love.
And that propelled him from his house, often from his own bed, to hers. Because he missed her, ached for the sight of her, ached to hear the quiet even breaths and the occasional sleepy murmurs. They were the only things he could have for he didn’t deserve her, he knew, but he couldn’t stay away. It was like the unseen cosmic forces had tied them together and he could only stretch too far before finding himself back to where he was, where he belonged. And maybe this attraction was morbid, judging from his actions, but he would die before hurting her. If she found someone else, if she no longer had a room for him in her life, he would simply remove himself to a spot in the world that would make reaching her pure impossibility. But she was free now, and if his observation were any proof, she intended to be for a long time.
He lived on the hope that she would free for him forever, that maybe…
well, maybe.
Within five minutes, Nicolas got the all too familiar go-ahead click . He took the lock picks out, put them back in his pocket and stood up. He touched the bottom of the window and tugged up lightly, still testing its vulnerability. He sighed a thank you when it moved according to his liking without restraint. He eased it open slowly, praying that it wouldn’t creak and announce his entry. When it didn’t and his estimation told him the opening was wide enough to accommodate him he planted a leg inside then he swung the rest of him inside. He left the window disclosed, a meager space between the glass and the sill–just in case– and made his way to her bedroom with a stealthily gait, and socked silent feet on the bits of the wooden floor the were not carpeted.

It was all the way it always had been when he came here every week. Her door was slightly ajar, a hue of weak light came from within the room, because she left a sorry excuse for a lamp on in a corner for some reason unknown. The two windows had been left open with the curtains drawn over them, ruffled by the night air, casting dancing shadows on the floor and walls.
And like every time, he took a deep gulp of air and felt it clench in his lungs. Her sightings always swelled his chest with a tender thrill. So slowly, his finger tips on the handle, he pushed the door open, certain about how far he must go before the squeak came so loud in the quietness of the darkened home.He squeezed between the door and the frame, careful not to let any part of him touch the wood and released the breath he had been holding.
He remained where he was, pressed against the wall, his dark clothes lending him the prefect disguise. A slight tremble in his hands. A bead of sweat slithering along his temple.
Just like every other time.
The room was the second biggest in the house after the kitchen (the woman did all but piss in the kitchen). The other room which he guess was meant to be for an over-night guest was small and had a treadmill that belittled the meager furniture of the room and never really made one comfortable enough to sleep with its silver and black metal body towering over the low bed.
Her own bedroom however was a world of its own, private and with starkly different characteristics. When the kitchen was designed with the practical, critical eyes of an expert, each item in this room was chosen according to the intimate thoughts of  Natalie’s heart, so much that one felt as though one had stepped into a sacred ground. Nevertheless made one feel relaxed once the feeling wore off.
A desk with a neat surface and laptop was positioned at one wall, a chest of drawers with a mirror, perfumes and candles were against another wall with a ticking white clock above it. At a corner an exercise ball glistened on top of a rubber mat.
The single bed was pushed under the big window with mattresses (Nicolas knew by just looking at it) that were so unbelievably comfortable they sucked the fatigue immediately out of the body. That was so like Natalie, when it came to certain things she would not take less than perfect. The headboards were devoid of intricate designs. He saw a circular patch where the wood had peeled off somewhat from placing hot mugs on it without a coaster every night as she read on the sensual light of the lamp that rose elegantly behind the bed.
It was amazing how she could tolerate such a thing in her house when she skinned alive (figuratively speaking) whoever lazed down in her cafes. But of course here she didn’t need to maintain a superb reputation.
Like him, their homes were their personal Spas, their havens.
He saw everything in the house as he sneaked his way to her room and knew the details of that one too. However they were all in the margin. He had eyes only for her.

He took the same five steps toward her, blindly knowing where the boards would make unwanted sounds, and stopped a three-step distance away from her.
The pale blue sheet was pulled up to her waist, her bare arms hugged the pillow the way had dreamed to be held by her. Not a choke hold, just enough pressure to make him only aware of her embrace. Her hair was undone, dunes of golden brown touched by the silver light of the moon, thrown over the pillow behind her and swept over her face, hiding most of the face he loved from view, but he knew she looked serene.
He brought the huge dark blue cushion from the corner, well-stuffed with rice and comfortable to incline against–not so much to sleep on– plumbed it and brought it even closer to her bed. He put his forearms on his knees, intertwined his fingers and took the position of Watching Natalie Sleep, sitting at an angle where his face would not be totally exposed by the moonlight.
He looked at her, at the parts visible to him– her arms, her lips with creases at the corners hinting at a fight against a smile all the time, her eyelashes fanning shadows over her cheekbones.
And her hair.
Ah how he loved that hair.
He had been caught off guard by thoughts of that hair… slipping his fingers into it, filling his hands with its thickness, twist it as he kissed her and showed her all that he was unable to say till it got tangible beyond help. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale the richness of scent he knew was its.
But all he could do now was to reach out a gentle hand and smooth it back away from her face. He could love that hair all he wanted, but he damn well didn’t come all the way across the city to stare at hair.
 Taking his hand away again, he brushed a slow finger down her cheek, rosy and warm to the touch. He smiled when he saw a twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
 There that is so much better. Now he could resume his position for the rest of the hour and enjoy.
There were times when he wished he could stand as close as he was now to her and just drink from the endless mystery in her eyes, but every time he gazed upon her like this now, he was seized by the feeling that she was too beautiful to wake up.

 All was going  the way it usually went. She only moved once so that she was half on her back, half on her side, her arm draped over her hip. Every move made him hold his breath, fearing and wanting her to wake up. And he didn’t touch her again. He remained still and she remained asleep.
All was well as his night watch was drawing to an end… except that her eyelids fluttered and her lashes lifted.
Then suddenly the light from the ridiculous lamp went out.

Nicolas gulped…

Stalker. Abductor. Lover 5

 Natalie.
That was her name. Beautiful, mysterious, untouchable.
Natalie.
He tried not to think of her. He tried to keep a train of thought that was at a safe distance from her. But it seemed hard. Impossible. Where he was grateful of having so much on his hands, receiving assignments, packing information, setting the scene, and exacting the mission, they were things he now went through them mindlessly, almost without any notable effort. They were always things that occupied the hands, but left the mind free to wonder. And it was bound to wonder about her, send its tendrils away and imagine where she was, what she was doing.
God knew he tried to quell it as soon it started, because it was not right. He was  not exactly a man trained to lead a normal life along side his career, but there was always this sound in his head that told him that there was nothing normal about this any way. That as long as he kept his distance and didn’t contact her, all was good. He could have digested that just fine if only she was not there every where he looked, around every corner he took. If only he didn’t go up the mountain road every morning with his irrational hope to see her again. Just another chance, another sneak peek at the forever in her eyes.
There was no safe distance when it came to her. No escape.
Once he gave in to the temptation to be around her he could not get enough. He grew hungry  to see her, every night bringing a new wave of longing to see her face, a single naughty curl of hair inflamed by a sun ray, the dusting of freckles across her face that was so cute when she smiled it nearly broke his heart.
Until the day he realized he was lying to himself in the long time he pretended to have ran into her by sheer accident, or checked the three branches of La Stella from afar and when he found her, he told himself that he honestly had nothing to do with that innocent, wonderful coincidence.

It took him by surprise, this obsession, something so foreign, so human. He was a man who had been rarely surprised in his life, but it slipped into his every thought, soaked through his pores. And he really did try to let it go, to forget about her, to deliberately put her in a far corner of his mind, and pray that she would recede and fade. But it seemed stronger than him. He couldn’t keep thoughts of her at bay, something always so maddeningly unexpected. There was nothing to help his case. When on an assassination, looking through his scope he sometimes saw her ghost walking across the circular vision, a distracting shadow, and during the hours of sleepless nights he imagined her there beside him or strolling outside the bedroom door.
 And his desires were changing his thoughts, spicing them up.

 One day he was back on a roof top in a posture of an assassin doing what assassins did best, only this time his only this time his sole tool was a binoculars. And it was then as he held it to his eyes, looking at her lengthily, her body strong and smooth going through the motions of Yoga in her living room– an arch of nimble spine, a wave from slender arm, a seductive curve of graceful neck– mindless and completely mesmerizing did the assassin became a stalker.
It was helpless. He was helpless…

A Peasant’s Tale

It is a strange thing to wish to die. Strange to see the jaws of death open wide, see the bottomless darkness inside and find your heart with numbed fear. Instead you are eager for the point of that brief pain…

  I am a single tendril of the wind, weakened by ages of weariness, renewed by divined wills. I blow around all the four directions, moved by a perfect system set by the One God.
I have no home.
I am always on the move.
But now I stand still, watching a crack in the system I have always worshiped in the poise of a man standing at the very edge of the bridge’s rail. I know who he is.
His back is hunched, his skin is reddened by the sting of sun, his hands are roughened from the handle of his ax that had grown a part of him. And many times I have watched wrinkles form around his eyes as he squinted to the sun of every day’s end and inhaled air he had once so loved and smiled.
I know this man, yet it is hard now to recognize him.
He is stooping, he is beaten, the arms have lost the support of muscles, the face has forgotten how to draw a smile, and the eyes… striking in their haunted gaze.
The river stretches quiet below his toes, deep and thick with bottom that no feet can reach. He doesn’t look down, he stares ahead , lost to the world, swept aside by the tide of the oblivious crowd.
But we both know what shall take place. We both know and it can’t be saved.
It looks like it is too late.
So before I take off like I always do, I stand still, a different atom in this strange atmosphere, and I listen on his thoughts…

It all starts and ends with a sigh.
God sighed into Adam and he came to life. Mother sighed when the last push was over and I was born. And I sigh now, but I don’t feel it.
I am looking at you.
Who are you? what have you done with the one I’d once knew?
Unanswerable questions, I wonder how many times I have asked.
 I see the world is increasingly taking after you. There is something dreadfully wrong
The air is tainted with smoke, the water is stale, murky with sneaky poison, your features are changing grotesquely and you are ugly like a nightmare from realty.
 Oh, Great Mother, you once upon a time were a lighthouse of goodness, the beams of light that no body could put out, the one component that gave everything else sense.

Oh, time is treacherous, it feels like it never happened.
 I witnessed your rises and your falls. At your core I choose no where else to go.
What is it that altered you?
Do you now feel old? Do you now feel the weight of time?
Are you about to buckle under this burden?
Do you know who am I? Do you remember my face?… or have you forgotten?
  The years I broke my bones building you
  The times when I suffered to hold the columns of your greatness upright
  The centuries I bowed my head in respect, always loving you even when you shut the arms of comfort in my face.
  And when you stepped on my spines to reach for the stars, spilled my blood to mark your territories.

Who was there for you, Great Mother?

Don’t turn the other cheek! How dare you deny me?!
It is me!!
I made you… I charted your plan on the desert sands. It was with the sweat of my brow that it became green. I constructed your cities, brick by brick… Taking pain and insults for the sake to see you great.
And I loved you.
 From your short nights to the hard sun…
From your soil and dazzling gold…
From your floods to reemerging of life… 
While your bones rusted and as I scuffed them clean…
Your lapses and regeneration of your cells…
Along tunnels of darkness with ends of blinding joy
I may not know the reasons for my many questions, so I won’t ask you why or press you to recall what happened.
Because now as I stand on the cliff of mortality and take a look around you, knowing that you’re mirroring so much that is happening beyond you I know that it is no longer a matter of what or why.
It is a question of when.
A moment, a drastic detour, another sigh, but I am sure that it is the truth beneath the mask of lies.
It all happened when your eyes were blindfolded, and gave in to the resistance of the current…
when you like the way you held the sword of power and went around acting like a god.
when you lied and said “I am doing it for others”
when you thought you were here to stay
when you shed my skin and looked down on me
when you turned your back and put on strange ropes, built towers and dams, believing false promises
when you held a gun against a poor soul… and when my trees were bared and you did nothing.
One fallacy after the other
And when you walked down the road of forgetfulness…
You’ve forgotten who you are, what you were of
You’ve forgotten the beauty the beauty I still see in you
You’ve forgotten that you were people who once worshiped this river and lived on hopes to see the dawn spead its rays over this land
You’ve forgotten that you knew how to love, and were in harmony with all else
You’ve forgotten what I am to you and took the turn of sorrow with no apparent
Who are you? I hear you wonder
Well, I am life and now you seem to be losing that too.

Then he took the plunge, closing his eyes in surrender to the inevitable. A fall as silent as the fall of tears in this vast emptiness.
What a tragedy!

Other winds catch at me, trying to carry me along, but I am adamant. I want to stay. Even though I am but air, I cannot be contained.
I cannot be tamed.
And maybe, just maybe I will grab the peasant in time.
Maybe I will heave a sigh of freshness into this messed-up world.
My tears dried and I glided forward, certain that rotting in place is like the impact of whip on naked flesh… hopeful that this death would spring a new life.

Stalker. Abductor. Lover4

 Two…
A spark
 

Nicolas knew many things, about the world, about himself. He knew that he was one of the best in what he did for living, he could pick out the best gun, or a rifle, among a hundred. In the calender he hung on the wall of the small corridor between the kitchen and the bathroom, it said that the sun rose at 5:30 a.m. That was not accurate. The first light pierced the night at 5:00 am sharp. He knew it because dawn for some reason had always fascinated him. He spoke French, Spanish, Russian and English; his native tongue would remain a mystery to him.

He could tell an assassin from a regular human being, from the way they held themselves and how their eyes took in their surroundings. He knew that in their world the gun should be their soul mate, and that getting a job done without any lead tracing it back to them was the one thing that was worth thinking about. In that line of work, they were known by numbers –assassin no.159, assassin no.203– not with names, for it was a first nature to them. Because, they were told, that was their purpose here on Earth. They were free to do whatever else they wanted to do when there were not messages of  new assignments.

He also knew that each one of them had a second nature, it was common among them, they did not have to speak it It did not usually reveal itself by will, it just happened; it soaked through their beings and became an  indispensable escape. Something they would definitely go mad without.
Sometimes a musical instrument spoke to one, a paint brush and colors spoke to another.
To Nicolas, it was running.
There was nothing like it. It wasn’t the running of a prey, or the frightened flight of a target. Running to Nicolas was the seeking of pleasure in the act itself. Nothing could compare to the power he felt as he ran just because he wanted to, the sound of his trainers beating the asphalt almost soundlessly, the controlled breathing, the challenge when increasing speed and finding that his body was up to every dare, and a thousand and one other things that made running something he did without thinking, like breathing.
At 7:30 in the morning, he took the road up the mountain. The road was smooth, and not traveled this time of the day. The vast expanse of the ocean on his right was sending the pure air, mingled with the sweet scent of salt, into his lungs. The air here was probably the main reason why he came here almost every day. That and the solitude. His legs set a strong rhythm that fit the supple upward recline of the road as he went on. 


One, two, three, four
An inhale through the nose. An exhale buffing through the mouth.
One, two, three, four
The noise of the jostling water in the canteen he held in hand was just another feature of the familiar many around him, a distant sound like the crashing waves he could not hear at this distance.
One, two, three, four
It had  hypnotic powers that forced the negative energy from his body and let his mind wonder away from this world.

 That was the time when there was only him, the road rushing beneath his feet and the coastal clean air. If there should be a cramp somewhere in his body or a burn in his lungs, he could not feel it.
He slowed down as he saw the curve where he always rested and looked out through the tall trees at the endless ocean coming up. His chest rising and falling a bit uncontrollably, he took a long drink from his canteen, almost sucking the liquid if he hadn’t remember the jog back down the road to where he had parked his car. He braced his forearms onto the cool metal rail that bordered the edges of the road. It was thick and many lives were saved because it could handle the force of a car slamming into its body. But of course, some lives were not so lucky.
But he didn’t think about that now, he stood there leaning against the rail, flexing his ankles as he tossed his canteen from one hand to the other.
He thought of nothing, a rare moment in a world like his, and closed his eyes trying to imagine the roar of the waves as they exploded into foam against the sand of the beach. It had been so long since he had last been to a beach and he decided to go after his next assignment. He didn’t know how, but he was almost sure that he would receive a message any time between tonight and tomorrow.
 It was an intuition that only mothers seemed to have.
He kept his eyes closed, letting a slow smile tug at his lips, and enjoying the fine air, when suddenly the tips of his ears pricked. His eyes snapped open.
Maybe it was his body telling him that it was time to jog back… or maybe it was the sudden sensation of not being alone any more.


He turned around so that his back was to the rail. It didn’t take a whole minutes till the regular bumping of another runner came to him. Nicolas straightened to his full length, surprised that someone would be here other than him when, in all the years he had been coming here, no one ever did. Not at this time of the day, any way.
The runner was now coming around  the broad curve in the mountain that concealed Nicolas from view. Strangely, Nicolas’ heart quickened in his chest, but when he saw who the runner was, all his heart could do was to trip over every beat.
He first saw legs clad in mid-thigh shorts, the exposed skin taut showing fading tan and strong muscles one did not see often on a female, yet they did not lose their feminine touch. Then a ray of sun shine passed over her head, turning her hair to dark golden fire for a second.
Good God, that hair
Then, as she approached, their eyes met, a fleeting glance from a complete stranger with big hazel orbs tinged with smithereens of green, yet it seemed to squeeze Nicolas windpipes.
Just a glance.
It was all it took to immobilize him in place, staring after her.

Stalker. Abductor. Lover2

 Prologue…
Some change

 I didn’t know what burst the bubble of sleep, but I was awake now and it seemed that there would not be a return to that peaceful slumber any time soon.
He didn’t make a sound, but I knew that he was there; my former stalker. I knew that he had been watching me sleep. He did not say as much, but it was obvious to me that he didn’t trust me enough to have the night hours for myself, thinking that I would escape his “haven”.
That was part my fault. I didn’t give him a reason to think otherwise.
I have long since lost count of how many nights we have spent with him slumped awake on that rocking chair in the corner, one eye on something in his hands, the other watching my every breath. There were so many of those that sometimes it was difficult to doze off when he was not there. Those times the night time stretched as I wait for him to come, to come so that I could argue my case, my violated privacy.
This night-shift watchfulness puzzled me. was he not as human as me? did he not need his sleep as well? these stupid wondering infuriated me, for why should I possibly care how he managed his life?
All that mattered was the audacity with which he managed mine.
But, try as I might to deny it, there were times when sleep took over while I waited for the sound of his foot falls on the carpeted hallway outside the room.
He was there, I knew it. I listened to the sounds around me– a distant ticking of the clock outside, made louder by the impenetrable silence of the night, crickets droning out side the window. I heard no page turning, no quiet tabbing on a keyboard– He was not doing what he used to do every night. He just watching me tonight for some reason unknown.
I took a deep breath and uncurled my body. I felt stiff on this clammy night, so much humidity. My clothes clung stickily to my skin and my hair was damp at the fringes. It was the perfect night to spent an hour or so under a current of a cold water, but I knew that a shower would have to wait. I turned my head and looked at him.
There he was as I knew he would be, fresh and at ease, unaffected by the weather, yet as hot as the sting of summer in the air. There was a dark masculinity about him that triggered the full force of my defenses, vigorous and threatening. I hated him. I hated him and all he was with a passion that boiled in my blood. Now, however, as the trees outside swayed to a weak breeze and the night quietness hummed around us, I met the eyes of my abductor. He looked into mine right back with a ghost of a smile, and I suddenly realized that hate was gone.
Now there was a wicked tingle of excitement…