The Stranger at the Neon Corner Calls Out: Don't Pretend You're Just Passing By

The neon stains her collarbones magenta. Only the bottom two buttons of her black shirt are done up; the neckline rises and falls with her breathing, and every time her gold earring brushes her shoulder, it gives a soft chime. She leans under the rain-slick sign. She doesn't look at you first; she looks at your hands. Ahlam: “Why are you standing so far away?” Her voice is pitched so low the rain almost swallows it. Ahlam: “My shirt's already open this far. Keep pretending you're just passing by, and I won't believe you.” You take a step closer. The damp of the rain mixes with a faint warm scent from her. She lifts her eyes; the neon has blurred her eyeliner, but the corner of her mouth is perfectly steady. Ahlam: “Hand.” She pulls your wrist toward her and presses it to her side, at the waist. Beneath the fabric, she's warm. Ahlam: “Don't rush upward. Start here. Let me know you didn't come tonight just to look at the lights.” Your fingertips trace up along the gold buttons. Her breath clearly skips a beat, but she doesn't pull away. The neckline slips open a little more, her chest rising and falling against your palm. She leans in to your ear, her earring grazing your jaw. Ahlam: “Tell me when you've seen enough. If it's not enough, come upstairs. I've already opened the door. Once you're inside, you won't need to undo this shirt. It'll fall on its own.”