From His Lips (a 53 Letters short story) Read online

  From His Lips

  A '53 LETTERS' SHORT STORY

  Leylah Attar

  *****

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Copyright © 2014 LEYLAH ATTAR. All rights reserved.

  ebook ISBN 978-0-9937527-3-5

  Smashwords Edition

  *****

  Table of Contents

  1. Ground Zero

  2. Stillness

  3. A Bar Across the Street

  4. A Simple Complication

  5. Roses

  6. Three Days

  About the Author

  Also by Leylah Attar

  1. GROUND ZERO

  I was in a black mood, and there was nothing I could do about it except bury myself in more work. Tina skulked into the office, hugging the walls like she wanted to disappear into them.

  “Here you go, Mr. Heathgate,” she said.

  I could almost hear her gulp as she left the documents on my desk, before scurrying back out. I was half-way through of a long column of figures when my phone rang.

  “Why are you calling my cell, Sam? What do we have land lines for?”

  “Sorry, Troy. It’s Saturday. I didn’t think you’d be at work. Is this a bad time?”

  “Cut to the chase,” I growled.

  He launched into our latest project. I should have been listening. So much depended on it. But all I could think about was her. I had made an art of avoiding her for four years. Four long, miserable years that hung like a thundery, grey cloud over me. It was there when I opened my eyes in the morning, turning everything dull and foggy. Once in a while, I managed to escape, to jump-start the adrenaline and feel alive again. Biking treacherous paths in Bolivia; ice-climbing the Rocky Mountains; giving in to the crazy thirst for a pair of golden arms and legs. But when morning came, I was back to grey. Ground Zero. Until yesterday—a truly drab, rainy day that had burst into a kaleidoscope of spectacular color the moment I’d stepped into Jayne’s car.

  And there she was. In the passenger seat.

  Shayda Hijazi.

  Damn her. Damn her golden, glowy skin and her liquid brown eyes. Damn the way she'd looked at me like I was the apocalypse, knocking on her door. Damn the way her voice quivered when she’d said hello. But most of all, damn her for having this friggin’ hold over me.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, wishing I could wipe yesterday clean, start over and head in the opposite direction so I was nowhere near Jayne and her stalled car. Seeing Shayda again was like getting a sniff of the drug you had sworn off, the one that could kill you, but still called to you, wanting to get in your blood and turn your insides out. I focused on Sam’s voice, trying to clear my head as I stared out the window.

  “Miss? MISS! May I help you?” I heard Tina’s voice before the door to my office swung open.

  And there she was again. Two days in a row. Shayda Hijazi. My deadly narcotic. My fix. My fixation. My opium. Except she was like a field of blazing poppies—soft, swaying petals that made me forget all about the poison seeds; standing before me in a prim and proper dress that made me want to slide my hands under the full skirt and rip her panties off.

  “Sam, I’ll call you back,” I said before hanging up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Heathgate, she just—”

  “Thank you, Tina. That’ll be all.”

  Tina hesitated, her eyes darting from me to Shayda, before seeing herself out and shutting the door behind her.

  And then it was just me and Shayda. Well, technically, it was me, Shayda and the whole charged-up field that always zapped between us, like mini bolts of blue lightning. I stood motionless, speechless, afraid she’d take off, afraid she wouldn’t.

  “I got the umbrella,” she said, after what seemed like an eternity of holding my breath.

  “Good.”

  “Doesn’t look like I’m going to need it today.”

  “No.”

  “Well. I just came by to say thanks,” she said, shifting uneasily under my gaze.

  It wasn’t until she reached for the door that I moved.

  No.

  I’m not done looking at you.

  I’m not done filling myself up on your face and your fingers and your feet and your soft, sexy voice.

  “Don’t go.” I shut the door, bracing my arms on either side of her as she stood with her hand on the door knob, her back to me.

  God. I’d missed her—the rose scent of her skin, the way her hair grew on her nape, the perfect, delectable ears that I could swallow whole in my mouth. It took steel-edged control to stop myself from grabbing her waist, from spinning her around and unleashing my pent-up passion on her lips, her breasts, her curvy-assed body. I wanted to slam her against the door and ravage her until she let out those little kitten moans that drove me wild.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” I forced myself to step away. Another second and she’d feel my worked up cock pressing into her.

  It worked. She turned and followed me to the mini-bar.

  I poured her a cup and waited for her to take it, but she just stood there, staring at my fingers around the mug.

  “Here.” I placed it on the counter.

  It killed me that she didn’t want to risk touching me. It thrilled me too. Because it meant she wasn’t immune to it. But mostly, it killed me.

  “Cream? Sugar?” I knew exactly how she liked it. Tea. Coffee. Sex.

  “Aren’t you having any?” she asked.

  She wanted me to have coffee with her.

  In my mind we were fucking. Gloriously, furiously fucking.

  I poured myself a cup and stared into the steaming brew of irony, hating myself, hating her. It was the only way I could keep myself from looking at her, because then she’d see it—my endless, boundless need for her.

  “Troy?”

  “Yes?” I took a peek because now she was the one hiding her face, averting her eyes.

  “I don’t want coffee.” A tear rolled down her face.

  A fucking tear.

  “Don’t, Shayda.” It took every bit of restraint, not to take clasp my hand over hers.

  “I don’t want coffee,” she said. “Or cream. Or sugar.”

  “I know, baby. But it’s all we got.” Because you shut me out. Because the only way I can make this right is to take you away from everyone you love. Because no matter which scenario plays out, someone always gets hurt.

  “We’ve got today,” she whispered.

  “What are you saying, Shayda?” I held my breath.

  “I’m saying, we have now. Here. Today.”

  “Quit fucking with me, Beetroot.” I don’t want today. I want all your todays.

  But the moment I said her pet name, I knew I was done. She was my Beetroot Butterfly. She might stop to rest on my shoulder, let me hold her for a while, my palms outstretched, let me marvel at her fragile, fleeting wings, but the slightest breeze and she’d be gone, taking with her all my colors.

  Because she wasn’t mine to love. Or to have, or to hold. She wore a shiny gold band around her finger, and it wasn’t mine. She had worn it since the first time we’d met.

  2. STILLNESS

  PAST

 
; I woke up that day with a foot in my face. No nail polish. Rough, hard, big and hairy. A man’s foot.

  Disappointing.

  “Ryan.” I pushed his dangling leg back on the bed. My voice was raspy from all the beer, and my head felt dull and heavy.

  “What?” He stirred.

  “I’m going for a run. You still in?” I got off the floor and stretched. I had carpet burn from where I’d crashed last night and the rosary around my neck had left round indents on the side of my arm.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” he mumbled. “Go back to sleep and think happy thoughts of Matilda.”

  “Mmmmmmatilda.” I smiled. The exchange student Ryan’s girlfriend had hooked me up with.

  “Dude, her body did not match her name.” said Ryan.

  “Dipshit.” I smacked him in the back of his head. “Is that why you had Ellen set us up?”

  “I could only hope. But you always luck out. Now get out of my face.” He pulled the covers over his eyes.

  I should be sleeping too, considering what time we got back. Thank god for Ellen. I’d been in no condition to drive myself home. I dusted the sand off my sweatshirt and put it on. Beach parties are fun, but gritty. And I was still smelling of smoke and whatever perfume Matilda had on. I thought of hitting the shower, but I was going to get sweaty anyways.

  It was early enough that dew drops still clung to plump blades of grass. A cool, sunny June morning—perfect for a run. And that’s exactly what I did. I ran. Not a nice, leisurely start to the day, but a full-on sprint, the incomparable rush of feeling the world whizz by in a blur of sound and light and color .

  I’d been running since sixth grade. It was the only thing that had stopped the phone calls—the ones my parents used to get from school.

  “We’re a little concerned.”

  “He lacks focus.”

  “We asked the kids to hand in a report about their favorite book. Troy picked four. None of which he finished.”

  My curiosity was my downfall. I wanted to see everything, learn everything, taste everything. All at once. I snuck into classes not meant for me. Sex Ed when I should have been in Math. Splatter Painting when I should have been drawing apples in the Still Life class. I ate when I was hungry, instead of when I was supposed to. I talked in the library and whistled in class. I winked at all the girls and declared undying love for my fourth grade teacher. I was a disruptive, albeit charming, rule-breaker, and had to be dragged back to my desk countless times, by my ear.

  It got better once I started channeling all my extra energy into running. My grades improved, I wasn’t bouncing off the walls and kids weren’t as intimidated by me. I leaned out, made the track team and kept running—even now, when I was in college. Why mess with a good thing, right?

  I took a swig of water and spotted a pair of long-legged girls walking my way. Heck, I loved summer. Sweet things in tank tops and short shorts. They looked at me. One said something to the other and then they looked away. They stole another glance as they got closer, and giggled.

  Women. So fucking irresistible. Coy, feisty, sporty, nerdy, glamour dolls, book worms, hot, cool. I was a slave to their charms. And it didn’t hurt that they seemed to gravitate towards me.

  “Morning, girls.” I slowed down as they passed.

  They smiled and batted their eyelashes. The blond elbowed the brunette and they laughed some more.

  I turned around and watched them walk away.

  Damn those short shorts.

  I was still reverse-walking, my eyes on the sweet summer girls, when I collided into someone.

  I say ‘collide’ because I didn’t just bump into her. I sent her flying.

  “Whoa! Are you all right? I didn’t see you there.”

  She didn’t reply. She was on her knees, trying to collect all the papers she’d dropped. They were quickly getting swept down the street. I intercepted one with my foot and ran the others down.

  “Here you go.” I knelt beside her and handed her the pile.

  That’s when I first saw her face.

  At the time, I was completely clueless about just how significant that moment was, how it would derail both our lives, because at the time I was just an ordinary guy looking at an ordinary girl on a quiet, shaded street. That’s how a lot of things start, don’t they? Our most profound experiences, our greatest adventures. When we’re just looking. Because if we knew that we were really at the beginning of miracles and plagues, and slayings and resurrections, we might retreat. But not knowing, I kept looking. And so did she.

  Except she didn’t just look at me, she looked into me. As if she saw a place there that she’d always wanted to go, and it stunned her that it actually existed.

  I forgot the papers in my hand, forgot everything but the delicate starkness of her face. She wasn’t cover-girl gorgeous. No. Her beauty came from some place deeper, some dark, hollow void that sucked up all of my scattered, restless energy. And for the first time I knew stillness. I was there, all there in that moment, not wanting to run off to the next one, or the one after that, or the one after that. Because that moment, that short, random suspension of me and her, was more loaded than anything I’d chased after.

  She was wearing an ill-fitting yellow dress, buttoned up to the collar. Her hair was swept carelessly to the side. So much of it. Long, dark, curly. It glowed with red highlights where the sun touched it, like fiery pieces of stoked coal. She regarded me with eyes that were the shape of almonds; dark espresso eyes, flecked with cinnamon. She was singularly the most beautiful, exotic creature I’d ever seen.

  Then she blinked, and the moment was gone. Pretty soon she would be too.

  “Shhh. Don’t move,” I said. “Not a muscle.”

  “Huh?” She turned a bright shade of red.

  She had felt it too, and she was about to flit away.

  “Don’t move,” I repeated. “There’s a butterfly. On your shoulder.”

  Lame, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

  “What color?” she asked.

  “Red.” Like the glints in your hair, the flush on your cheeks.

  “Red?”

  A lie.

  But I didn’t care if she believed me. I just wanted her to stay. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” I said.

  The truth.

  “You know,” I continued, grasping at straws to keep her there, “there’s a Native American legend which says that if you want a wish to come true, you must capture a butterfly and whisper your wish to it. Since it makes no sound, it won’t tell the wish to anyone but the Great Spirit. By making the wish and releasing the butterfly, your wish will be taken to the heavens and be granted.”

  “Are you...are you going to try and catch it?”

  “Only if it wants to be caught.”

  Somewhere nearby, a rose bush was in full bloom. I could smell its sweet, heady fragrance in the air.

  She made a short, jerky move, clamping down on the papers she was holding, as if to steady herself. Something glinted off her left hand. A ring. A plain golden band on her wedding finger.

  Fuck.

  All of the roving, tossing, turning energy found me again.

  “It’s gone,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The butterfly.” The weird stillness I felt around you. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No,” she replied.

  But she looked unsure, like she wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened.

  That makes the two of us.

  I smiled. “I’d say I’m sorry for running into you, but I’m not really.”

  Her guard was up now; her face back on. So that was the look she normally wore to keep the world at bay.

  “Need some help?” I offered her a hand.

  “I’m fine.” She kept her head down.

  Her right knee was scratched, but she was too busy clutching the papers like a shield to keep me away. It didn’t seem right to just leave her there, in the mid
dle of the street, but that’s exactly what I did. Because I wanted to stay, and you never, ever mess with another man’s woman.

  I was tempted to turn around and make sure she was okay. Maybe I just wanted one final glance. She looked too young to be married.

  Keep running, Troy. Keep running.

  I had three more rounds to go, but I headed back to Ryan’s. I felt like I had just been run over by a truck.

  Ryan was sprawled out in the living room, watching TV and balancing a bowl of cereal on his lap.

  “Hey,” he said without turning around.

  I peeled off my sweatshirt and downed the rest of my water. My throat still felt parched.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Dad! Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.

  Bob came into the kitchen, finishing off his coffee.

  “Would you mind getting that, Troy?” he said.

  I opened the door and did a double take.

  Yellow dress, curly hair, crooked pile of papers.

  Her.

  Standing upright, she was curvier than I thought. Not quite as tall. But she turned just as red when she saw my bare chested form.

  Hell. I was ready to buy whatever she was selling. Cookies. Time share. Encyclopedia Fucking Britannica.

  “Ryan?” she said, peering at me through the screen.

  “I’m Ryan.” His head popped up beside me. “He’s Troy. Who are you?”

  “Coming through, coming through,” said Bob. “Oh hey, Shayda.” He let her in. “Boys, this is my assistant. Be nice.” He said something to her before leaving, but I wasn’t listening.

  I smelled roses as she walked past me and headed for Bob’s home office.

  “Holy crap. My dad’s assistant? She’s smokin’!” said Ryan, when she was out of earshot.

  “Lay off, man. She’s married.”

  We shut up as Ryan’s sister walked into the hallway.

  “You want breakfast?” she asked, rubbing her eyes sleepily.