Chapter 1
The golden-white desert was killing me. Murdering me with blistering wraiths swirling tons of sand around. The monotony of this parched landscape was easy to explain. As a crucible of death, a bone-dry basin of vastness and death. The immensity of it burned into my brain, my only visual relief being a biting fly or another sand dune. As far as the eye could see, everything was being roasted and sautéed with the same intensity. There is nothing ambrosial or appetizing about the blinding world. Refracted sunlight burns off the scorching salted sediments on the bottom of my chin, my cheekbones flayed, and my skin dehydrates out here in the devil’s garden. There’s no respite from it. The surface of the sun had a twin beneath my aching feet.
The listless taste of my last chicken, potatoes, and green beans meal was a distant memory as I trudged towards my death. No matter where I stepped, death’s hungry maw sought me everywhere. There was no sanctuary from it. My boiling brain convinces me the desert has a severe mental illness and hates anything living.
Every sun-scoured scrap of fauna has barbs, hooks or thorns. Every animal or insect wants to rip and rend you, snag and splinter you. The desert does not discriminate. It does not play politics or give one inch to a person’s societal role. King or pawn, babe or savior, the bleached desert is an obsessive, malignant force.
Then I met her.
The only flower with the scent of ambrosia and cherries. The sparkling light that dances like fairies in her eyes was enchanting.
I had driven across the camp over soft sand, wanting to pull me to unknown depths. The tawny air had filtered the sandstorm’s fury enough to make the world seem alien. It took a person’s mental resilience and endurance to contend with the harsh landscape. I came to this office for a coordination meeting, with hopes that sand particles wouldn’t be too gritty on my face despite the scarf, tinted goggles, and my light hood. I felt like I walked straight out of the 1984 ‘Dune’ movie as a Fremen powered by the powerful spice. Yet, when engulfed, visibility is poor to none, and high winds blow sand everywhere – there is no escape.
However, I found myself in an oasis.
I’m normally a high-drive, intelligent man. To be frankly honest, I love women. Their curves, their sparkle, their curves. Fuck, everything feminine, from their crowning hair down to their feet, is enchanting. It takes good conversation and wit to deal with a man as myself. I am world-traveled, experienced a lot of shit, and seen a lot of shit. I have family drama alongside the rest of the world. I took this job here in hell’s hot ass attic because I was working on financial goals. Now, anyone who knows me knows I have a lewd mind. I think of dirty, nasty, naughty things on a sensual level. I’ve learned hard lessons to keep my mouth shut. My eyes trained to not give the secrets that swirl harder than the damn sandstorm. But - -
- - whenever I engaged a woman in sexually provocative conversation, I’ve never apologized or defensive for being verbally erotic. Even when my language turns explicit, I regret nothing. I’m sure of who I am and what I bring to her table. It’s always her choice to go further or let the conversation lay at the lizard’s webbed toes. There have been occasions where I was harshly criticized for my filthy mouth, but ironically they never left the table from the conversation. They were intrigued that my mental stamina was on the same wavelength as my confidence. I’m a calm, relaxed, unapologetic and straightforward man. I simply catch most women off-guard with my candor. I do take into account their culture and identity. More, I see them as female as they are, and I speak to them with candor.
At a minimum today was to speak with another organization’s manager. The name of the building I went to was the front and center of the main door. The place was located in a maze of connected bricks and tinted windows. I’d forgotten it was the lunch hour, but I always arrived a few minutes early so as to be punctual. This time, the project I managed required the participation of the largest staff in the camp. The specific office I went to was on the third floor of a four floor facility, so I had a choice between taking the stairs or the elevator. The interior walls were cool white, like fresh milk, marble. The floors were a soft powder blue that reminded me of pastel candies. Hues of gray steel coexisted with the copper door knobs. Paintings of fawns and pleasant meadows laid on the walls as if they’d grown there.
I removed my scarf, goggles, and hood to brush off the accumulated sand. I felt momentarily bad for dropping the sediment to the floor. It felt somehow… sacrilegious. I pushed with the sole of my shoes to move the tiny piles back out the door. It was a lost battle, as swirling tornadoes the size of toy cars kept trying to invade the building.
Once my eyes settled in the sudden, warm glow of the entrance, I noted a bubbling fountain in the middle of the entrance. Water was so sacred and scarce that this feature awed me. I was transported to a tranquil state of mind.
I shook my head to knock off the spell to go upstairs. I decided to take the stairs. Something about the tiny muscle burn in my legs told me that exercising was worth it. I hoped I’d come across someone in this quiet realm to maybe engage in friendly small talk. Instead, I stepped past windows coated with sand drifts. Each level went higher, and I was able to glimpse roof tops and tents as I made my way upward. I heard the echo of my footfalls on the stone stairs, with metal gripping the edges to prevent slips and falls. The railing was cold from the air conditioning. I listened to my breathing as I fell into a rhythm, making my way up the castle interior. I found the wooden door on the level I aimed for to be deceptively lighter than I thought. Either that or I’d grown stronger after my workouts.
I came out from the stairwell, and found the cushioned carpet beneath my feet to be a respite for sore, achy feet. The coral pink and orange pattern blended perfectly to the dove gray walls. The crisp air from the entryway gave way to a berry, apple, and peonies scent. The cold air held a hint of moisture far different than the scalding ball sack the Devil forced outside. It was refreshing. I pulled the paper sheet that held the exact office number and identification I needed to locate.
I strolled past row after row of dark offices and empty cubicles. I wondered if the entire staff was gone for the day or if I had the wrong building. I verified with the information and noted I had the right place and date.
I looked at a nearby LED wall lock and saw it was 12:05 hours. A few moments later, I found myself at the right door, and the creamy white light filtered through the dark tinted glass panes alongside the door. As I entered the office, I saw her.
The wildflower.
On top of her desk sat a aromatic wax burner and a clean surface with organized trays filled with documents and folders.
What caught me off-guard was how sanguine her presence, no… her essence filled the space. She had been watching a video on her monitor and paused it with a smile when I came in. A roast beef sandwich in her napkin and iced tea sweated on her oak desk. She wore a skintight straight white cotton leggings and a claret floral sheer sleeveless top. I didn’t see much more of her outfit, as the sturdy desk hid her full body from my view.
It looked as if someone expertly painted her skin, as her outfit completely defined the curvature of her body. A smile flittered on her glossy lips. From my angle, I saw the peonies and lilies were real in the vase on the corner of her desk. The very air felt welcoming and inviting.
“Oh, hello.” The desert goddess said to me. “How may I assist you?”
Now my dirty fucking mind immediately screamed a few things that would make Aphrodite blush and Dionysus cover his ears.
“Hi. I’m Brandon. I’m the project coordinator with a meeting with Ms. Candyce Harris. I’m a bit early.” I flashed her a flirty smile. “I can wait if she’s busy.”
Her eyes looked at me, from my black shoes to my black hair. An accepting smile coated her smile. “You’re at the right place, but Ms. Harris and her people are all out for lunch until 13:00 hours -ish. Matter of fact, the entire floor left for a long lunch today. They’re having a send off for a retiring manager. They may not be back until a bit later than that. Is there anything I can do?”
Most certainly, there was a lot she could do for me. But needed and wanted to make sure I understood her female perspective at our first interaction. She seemed right at the start to be the type who would run with a crew of girlfriends to a sports bar with a team jersey and jeans, taking shots or drinking a beer. I guessed she was used to being objectified, rather than subjectified. She was shamelessly beautiful.
Behind her smile were ten thousand flickering thoughts, like popup ads on a computer with a virus. She was innately acute to attention. On her deepest primal level, when she interacts with a man, she was afraid of being physically harmed or sexually assaulted. But she doesn’t know that when she met me, I could be Jack Ryan, Jack Sparrow or Jack the Ripper. Any one of those is equally likely. Even more terrifying is the fact that, over the course of her life, the biggest threats to her are men she knows or knew. And her fears didn’t stop at physical harm; she was just as vulnerable to social and emotional harm. Socially, I could spread lies about her or damage her reputation, and it would be as swift as social media and that detrimental. I balanced the razor tightwire between seeing her as an object for my own lust and appreciating her boobs and ass. I appreciated her eyes, and already her sweet personality came through as she spoke to me.
“I’m okay with waiting. Do you mind?” I watched her eyes and her expression to catch the cues that I wasn’t bothering or irritating her. I saw none of it and felt a moment of relief when she spoke next.
