I've been alone all my life, moving from one place to another, never really having any time to meet someone, to fall in love, to be romanced and swept off my feet. I'm not growing any younger, I feel my forty years of age. My body is lean muscle, my skin a weathered tan, sprinkled with freckles, kissed by the sun. I've done so much, but never got anything in return. The only thing I ever desired was a pair of lips loving mine.
It's hot in Zimbabwe, I'm standing on the verandah of the room that I'm staying in. I look out at the desert, see the heat rising, undulating waves in the horizon, blurring the defined lines of the acacia trees that dot the line of the land, home for the African birds and food for the giraffes.
I'm part of a special team of United Nations workers, a team that goes to the places no one wants to go. We're staying in a small guarded complex, specially provided by organizations wishing to help the country. There are thirteen men on the team, and one other woman. I am alone. My body hungers for a human touch, warm, intimate, nurturing, and loving, something that I haven't felt since the death of my husband eighteen years ago. We were part of the UN together, traveling together, working together, sharing our passions to better humanity. I haven't been with a man since.
Its early evening. The sun is heavy in the sky, its top a rich golden yellow, then line by line it becomes darker and darker till it is a bold orange that leaks out into the sky that kisses the land in the horizon. I wear only a robe made of patterned cloth woven by the locals and it's belted loosely about my lean waist. It's dinner time. I asked the staff to bring my food to my room with the excuse that I don't feel well. In truth, I feel fine, I just don't want any company, or at least the company of my co-workers.
I turn away from the picturesque view and take a seat at my desk just as someone knocks on my door. I stand, tucking strands of my sun-bleached graying hair behind my ear. Opening the door, a man of dark complexion, one of the staff I can tell by his uniform, stands just outside one the brown carpet of the hallway, a wooden tray laden with food exuding sweet aromas and a sweating glass of water.
"Good evening, Ms. Walker," the man says, his voice deep and slightly accented. I study him, my blue-gray eyes hooded to disguise my intent. He's tall, over six feet, and lean with dark chocolate skin, his eyes a startling white against his face, flaring nostrils, the characteristics common amongst many of his race.
"Good evening," I say in good grace and I step aside and let him in. I close the door behind him and I watch as he walks across the floor, long ground-eating strides, and he sets down the tray on my desk and sweeps off the wooden cover.
"Tonight, the dinner is goat and a corn soup," he says, setting the cover back down. I can feel my body warming, though it isn't from the African heat. I feel a slow flush creep up on my dark cheeks and I sit down on the foot of my bed, my ankles crossed and my hands beside my thighs. He comes over to me, his dark brow furrowed in concern. "Ms. Walker, are you alright?" He kneels down and I look up into his eyes, dark pools, almost black, bottomless, I can't even see his pupils.
.... There is more of this story ...