She’d thank him afterwards. And in that moment if he’d asked for fifty dollars out of her purse, to tide him over until next time, she’d have given it to him, and allowed herself to believe, just for a few hours, that she’d actually see him again.The door whooshed and the night’s cool breeze scuttled through the diner. A man stood barely upright in the doorway, with his arms out like he was walking a tightrope between skyscrapers in a hurricane. He was wearing cheap, dirt-caked jeans, a t-shirt, and the sort of parka jacket you get given by charity workers when they find you out cold in a box under a bridge. Dried spittle clung to the edges of his mouth, his bloodshot eyes rolled like dulled marbles and he groaned something about ‘Marty.’ - ‘Has anyone seen Marty?’No one answered, most didn’t even bother to look up, and he staggered back out the door. Someone do him a favour and put a bullet in his head, I thought to myself, and then turned my thoughts back to the waitress.I guessed. "I'm a married woman." The words sounded hollow when she said them aloud. She'd hoped they'd have some kind of power to set her free from this trance but it did nothing but cement the reality of the situation around her. She was naked, the only thing providing her with even a hint of modesty was the rising team and a few soap bubbles. He was giving her the opportunity to flee and the only thing she was doing was staring at his cock. "He can never find out." I know." Zakir whispered and closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Before Amina could protest or consent he cupped her face in his rough hands and pulled her into a kiss. The contrast between her husband and Zakir was incredible. The difference between Abdul's almost feminine softness and nearly submissive technique stood in stark opposition to the callous hands currently clutching her face. When his tongue thrust into her mouth it wasn't to dance with its partner, it was to conquer and claim her as his. Amina.
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