The Osmosis of Flesh

We part ways in the morning, each slipping into our separate vehicles, at different times, the city sprawling before us like a lover’s challenge. It’s a game, a delicious dance of hide and seek, where the stakes writhe with anticipation. 

Can my lover, with his keen hunter’s instincts, find me in the labyrinth of streets and edges? Perhaps. The uncertainty is a little nano bot of desire scrambling through my veins.

I crave the quiet corners of the world, where I can sit, a silent observer, drinking in the lives that unfold around me. A café tucked into a city corner, or a park bench kissed by dappled sun beams; these are my havens. I settle into them, feeding my soul with the stories of strangers, their gestures and glances painting the air with unspoken language.

My lover, though, is a predator in this game, stalking me with a hunger that sets my skin ablaze. If he captures me, his proof etched in the sharp clarity of a photograph, I am his, utterly, for the next twenty-four hours. No strings, no chains, just the surrender of my will to his.

We don’t rely on cold technology, no air tags or trackers like those tethered couples. The unknown is our aphrodisiac, a rose-scented elixir that drips down my thighs, warm and teasing, like beads of sweat in the heat of summer.

He leaves early, his mind already tangled in the web of his work investigations, vanishing into the maze of his office. I let him fade from my thoughts, indifferent to whether he finds me. The game is its own reward, the thrill of it curling through me like smoke.

I glide through the city, my car purring down Chestnut, veering left onto 8th, then drifting along Market past Miller Plaza. The world outside my window is alive, and I am its silent voyeur.

At Frothy Monkey, the air is pleasant and filled with the scent of roasted coffee and warm pastries. Beth, radiant behind the tall counter, greets me with a grin. Her black t-shirt clings to her frame, a skull choker glinting at her throat, a perfect blend of edge and charm. 

“Hey, Selene’’,” she purrs, her voice a velvet caress. “Gurrahl, I am loving this black tiered froth you’re floating in. It’s like you’re wearing a piece of the night sky.”

Her enthusiasm is a burst of color in the morning’s quiet. I offer a half-smile, my lips curving with a hint of mischief. 

“Not many days left for dresses, Beth,” I murmur, my voice low, as if sharing a secret with the autumn air.

“I know that’s right,” she laughs, her eyes dancing. “And speaking of froth…”

“I know that’s right!” she interrupts herself, her laughter a bright chime that echoes through the café. “I got it! A frothy latte and…” 

She arches a brow, playful and expectant. “Food?”

“An almond croissant. Warmed, please,” I say, my tone smooth, savoring the ritual of our exchange, smiling.

As I pay, she chatters about her cocker spaniel, Jack, and his recent eye surgery, her words tumbling out like a melody. 

“I’ll bring it right over!” she promises, her energy a warm breeze against the mid-morning chill.

I claim a seat beneath one of the blue umbrellas on the outdoor patio, the fabric fluttering softly above me. The café is a quiet sanctuary, disappointingly empty, offering no lives to observe, no stories to unravel. 

Beth soon arrives, bearing a steaming mug and a warm plate, the croissant’s buttery aroma curling around me. I sip the latte, its foam kissing my lips, and wait, my senses attuned to the world’s subtle rhythms.

Then, across the patio, a stranger appears, seated beneath his own blue umbrella. He’s an enigma in suit pants and a baby-blue t-shirt, an odd pairing that catches my eye. I could swear the patio was empty when I arrived, yet there he is, a shadow that wasn’t there before. Behind my sunglasses, I study him, feeling the weight of his gaze as it traces my form, bold and unapologetic. A smile flickers in my mind. This is no coincidence; my lover’s hand is in this, a plant sent to tease me, to stir the game. Likely one of his employees, tasked with surveillance, unaware of the fire he’s stepping into.

Let the game begin, I think, my pulse quickening. If you’ve never had a lover who plays such games, my darling, you must find one. The thrill is a slow burn, a delicious torment that sets your soul alight.

I could toy with this man in a thousand ways, unravel him with a glance. My lover once told me, in a voice like warm whiskey, that if I ever suspect someone is watching me, I should walk right up and say hello. 

I’m not one to shrink from a challenge. At 5’10”, I carry myself like a storm, my presence a quiet command. I sip my coffee, slow and deliberate, while he fidgets, pretending to scroll on his phone. 

He’s new at this, his nerves betraying him. My gaze is unrelenting, a silent promise that I could melt him into a puddle with a single look. He doesn’t yet know the power he’s up against. His phone tilts, perhaps snapping photos. Let him try. I’ll know the difference between his amateur tricks and my lover’s photographic artistry. 

A group of teenagers spills onto the patio, their laughter a sudden burst of chaos as they push two tables together, momentarily obscuring my view. Among them, Jasmine, my cousin’s daughter, spots me. 

“Selene’!” she calls, her curly black hair bouncing like a cascade of midnight. 

Her mocha skin glows under a sunflower t-shirt, vibrant and alive. I rise slightly, wrapping her in a quick, warm hug.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school, Jaz?” I tease, my voice soft but playful.

“Half day,” she grins, her eyes sparkling with youthful defiance. “Early half day.”

“Well, enjoy your friends. I wasn’t letting you slide without a hug. I won’t tell your mom,” I say, my smile conspiratorial.

“I don’t care if you do. It’s cool. For real,” she laughs, tugging her jeans up. 

I notice the slight hollow in her frame, the weight of her final high school year pressing against her spirit, a quiet storm beneath her bright exterior.

“Love you, picita,” I call, using her pet name, a tender bond between us.

“Me too,” she replies, hurrying back to her friends, her laughter trailing off.

When I look again, the stranger is gone, his table empty, as if he were a mirage dissolved by the morning’s increasing warmth. 

---

Evening settles over us like a soft tulle curtain, the back porch bathed in the glow of twilight. I’ve crafted salmon cakes, their golden edges crisp, paired with steamed carrots kissed by cilantro, honey, and pecans; a dish that settles onto the tongue with warmth and care. We sit, my lover and I, the air between us thick with unspoken questions. 

Did he hunt? Was the stranger his pawn? Will we weave lies to keep the game alive? 

The tension is a delicate breath, pulling taut across my skin, and I feel a flush creeping up my cheeks. His eyes, dark and knowing, seem to peel back my thoughts, leaving me bare.

“What did you do today?” he asks, his voice a low, curious murmur, laced with something deeper, something that stirs the air between us.

My gaze meets his, unflinching, as I slide my fork between my lips, slow and deliberate. 

“It was light,” I say, my voice a soft caress. “I went to Frothy Monkey. Saw Beth. Sat outside, read for a while. Jasmine popped in with her friends. Went grocery shopping. Came home. Bathed. Cooked for you.”

If the man at the cafe was his, he knows I’ve left him out, a silent challenge in my omission. Our eyes lock, and a rush surges through me, pooling hot and heavy in my hips. He leans back, his phone resting in his hand, a quiet power in his stillness. He sets it down, takes a bite, and the moment freezes in unspoken truths.

My phone buzzes, a soft vibration against the table. I open the message, and there it is, a photo, capturing me in my black tiered dress, the fabric clinging to my curves like a lover’s touch. I am crossing the lane into the grocery store.

“Beautiful choice of dress, Selene,” he says, his voice a low growl of admiration. “You are stunning at every distance.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my breath catching, the words barely audible over the pulse in my ears.

We eat in a scattered silence, a gorgeous, comfortable quiet charging the air with open lust. We’ve no need for small talk, no hunger for the clamor of busyness. The meal ends, and he rises, stacking the dishes with care as I gather the empty wine glasses, their stems cool against my fingers. We move to the kitchen, the air shifting, charged with the weight of his victory.

He steps behind me, his body pressing against my back, a slow, deliberate heat. His fingers weave into my hair, pulling it back gently, exposing the curve of my neck. His breath, hot and teasing, brushes my skin, trailing up to my ear. 

“Let’s go make babies,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet command that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You know I don’t want children, my love,” I reply, teasing, a chuckle mingling with a soft moan, my body already yielding to his touch.

“Me either,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear, “but we’re about to pretend we’re making twins.”

His hands slide beneath my dress, tracing the soft skin of my thighs. I part them slightly, a gasp escaping my lips as desire pools within me. He slides his hand gently between my lips and my body relaxes into him.

He’s won this round, and I surrender willingly, my body alight with the fire of our game, ready to burn in the exquisite surrender of his touch.

The next twenty-four hours has begun.