There is this story spinning in my head. I have tried to write it down but the words have simply refused to trickle down to my fingers. It’s frustrating because — in my head — it’s a good story which will be even better on paper. For the past one week, I have written around 16 intros to this story and then folded the papers into balls and dust-binned them. Yet it’s a beautiful story. A story with an adorable face. A story with sensual eyes, forever with a sting of tears in them. It speaks to me, this story. Its voice is as soft as a falling leaf. Naturally, this story is a woman. A woman who will make you toss in bed the whole night imagining every erotic scenario she and you can be in, even when you know she is out of your reach… just like Amara.
The two doors of the elevator swung open. Standing right at the corner of the elevator, dressed in a long-sleeved white top, a black tight and swanky black heels, was this glowing woman. Her black handbag dangled from her curled elbow. And her powerful perfume stood right next to her. She threw me a quick glance, wanted to smile (I could tell) but she instead looked away like she hadn’t noticed my cute beard.