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
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for your support.

Copyright © 2014 LEYLAH ATTAR. All rights
reserved.

ebook ISBN 978-0-9937527-3-5

Smashwords Edition

*****

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

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.

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.