ONE NIGHT (FICTION)

               Last year in Italy on a day I don’t really remember; I had a strange encounter. The evening was warm and with my friend I set out from our hotel to grab a bite. The sky, I remember distinctively was just warm in colour and in presence. From a distance I heard some loud live music playing. It was in a language that I didn’t understand. I went and sat at the edge of this deli with my friend. I looked outside, trying to soak in the weather and the music. We were poor at the time as we had already spent most of our money on travelling, so we sat there with a glass of their cheapest wine. As I sat there wearing this thin red dress with my breasts flowing freely with the air and breeze mingling in my hair, the music stopped. They announced in English that they were going to start a competition - that if you could make your own pizza, it would be free for you. A lot of people seemed interested and stood up. The caramel coloured man who was singing in the strange language also participated but needed a companion now. He screamed in the strange language and in the broken English he knew and asked for anyone to join him. He wore white khaki’s and blue shirt that was just so slightly open to show his chest. There was something hotter about him than the weather, so when he came to our table and embraced me and asked me in his language to help him out, it wasn’t me who agreed but every cell of my aching body that agreed to his call. All the while that he touched my hand, my waist and his intentional or unintentional touch to my breasts that he used to guide me to make the crust, I lost myself more to his intention. He spoke French, I realised somewhere where he left me to put the pizza in the oven. As we waited for the pizza to come, he noticed my ambiguine to his body language, I don’t know if it was the French or his aura or the glass of the cheap wine that got me so deluded but when he touched my waist and pulled me closer to his body I gave in and surrendered every inch to him. He bent down and as my breasts lingered  on his chest so tight, I felt his tongue in my mouth, I let go completely and if he wouldn’t have been holding me, I think I would have fell. He pulled my dress up right there and pulled me up to the table where we continued our passionate display. I don’t remember my friends’ response to this or where she went or what happened to her but we stopped when the pizzas came out. I remember he asked them to pack it and send it, where I don’t really remember. He pulled me like a leaf swinging in the breeze and placed me on the back seat of his car, I have never in my life remembered being so enchanted. He told his driver to drive and focused his attention on me, where he partly let my dress slip and sucked the life out of me from my breasts. He went on lower to bite me in the belly in the back seat of his car, while I moaned ever so lightly, as I had completely lacked all my senses at that point. Th car stopped and I saw a huge villa. Though I don’t remember how big it was, as I had given up on accuracy. He picked me up half clothed and took me inside this big palace, house, mansion, I don’t really remember. He then threw me on the satin bed of his and pulled down his pants and tore away his shirt like he was going to slaughter me. He fucked me that night like no other man had. He pulled in me so deep that I could feel him in my stomach. He fucked me so bad all night that I forgot who I was itself. I remember when I did wake up in the morning, it was because he was speaking something in my ear, that my hair covered, I didn’t understand a single word. I went off to say in Spanish that how nice it would be if we could talk like this forever. He kissed my head and left. I remember leaving his place unnoticed and still don’t have any details of that night. I didn’t know his name neither, did I remember where he lived? My friend later in the days got to know that he owned that deli and flowers came to my room a lot many days after that, roses, tulips and lily’s. I think it was ironic as I am pretty sure he didn’t know my name, which was the flower Tulip, as I looked at the cards sent with the flower, written in French. I never bothered to translate it. In the end he always wrote “Love”. I had always more important things to tend to.