Dedicated to Booker who contrary to all expectations, did not take off his shirt.
They drove up a 40 degree incline and then they shared their first breaths of air with Her. Their wide open collars breached to her the lumps in their throat at the sight of her.
Nobel had created a goddess of her. She saw that he even had prayer beads with her alphabet on each of them embracing his gullet. Booker’s driving was enough wild to scare even the immortal Goddess. She sat perched between them both; the writers not further than the expanse of her shoulders allowed and not closer than that. Booker gave the impression he would turn his face to hers and seal the kiss that was lingering in both their heads. Nobel and she had serious business to do; they both came armed for each other; the arsenal in their bellies, their eyes shone at each other with the glimpse of the fireworks they could create.
Booker looked perfect with his eyes that reminded Her of dark forests and his structure which she would have loved to explore had he only undid his buttons. Nobel looked all-pervasive, his hair echoed the despair in his eyes and his dimples betrayed it all.
Having arrived at their destination at Bookers mercy, they placed themselves in the ascent to Zafraan. Intoxications ran freely here and Booker and the Goddess rejoiced. Dear booker, with his contempt for such “pleasure-measures” rejoiced in rubbing with the Goddess’ shoulders during their revelry. They dismissed the carrot-head who offered his obeisance to the Goddess all evening before allowing him to lay their table with ambrosia. After the alcohol had filled his soul Nobel silently declared looking directly at Her a cardinal sin.
She told Nobel how the polka dots and the music of the forest in the toilet reminded Her of Her heavenly abode. Nobel had recently beaten Her at a game of verbal intercourse and she was poised to stake Her claim in the conversations that evening. Matters of love and sexual intercourse could not have been accorded with these lesser mortals but she was adamant and with Booker safely in Her cape, Nobel looking Here, there everywhere but at Her, she felt she was headed at a win.
On the way back up the 40 degree incline, Booker finally confessed of his sources of pleasure and displeasure; he was assured salvation was his. They found their preferences rhyme, that their laughter rhymed and that their scorn also rhymed in some stanzas.
There were embraces at the end of it.
She suggested they catalogue this tryst, a first hopefully; and here is Her account.
For more on the evening from Booker:
For more on the evening from Nobel: