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La Verita
I am a half kuwaiti/half american girl living in Kuwait. I am perpetually suspended in the granite hollow that fills the space between two worlds... Not quite who I am, not quite who I want to be... Cat-lover, poet, music-nut. I currently hold a PHD in both BS and Smartass. In short, I pitch my tent in the median of life..


Picture perfect
"Laugh as much as you breathe and love as long as you live."


Curled-up with..


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Sunday, September 25, 2005
It's all about the strobes, robes and the afterglow...

It was a white New York City winter. The snow was everywhere. On the streets. In your hair. Coloring your every breath. They had met dancing all night at a club. He had moved up behind her during a Ciara slow-jam. She whipped around, fully prepared to shove him off her. The strobe lights flashed over him briefly. Her eyes ran the length of him. She took in his messy black hair, his five o'clock shadow, his tall, wiry frame. It took her all of five seconds to re-think her predetermined reaction. Her smile was enough to inform him that he had gotten her approval. He moved in on her again, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and pressing his hard lines against her curves.
They slept together that night. It was as spontaneous as she had ever been. Dalia... everybody's good girl. The one who always looked before she leapt, who always ducked when nothing was coming her way. But when, after they had been dancing for more hours than she could care to count, he pulled her to his chest and whispered in her ear that he wanted to be alone with her, there was no way in hell she could say no. They made out the whole cab ride to his apartment. As his hands gripped her thigh, she thought about reconsidering. Dalia may have been a good girl, but she wasn't naive. She knew what would happen if she ended up in his apartment, but as his tongue probed her mouth she honestly couldn't say that she cared.
She started pulling off his clothes the minute the door to his apartment closed. That's the thing about a white winter. There's so many damn layers to take off! He buried his face in her neck as she pushed his jacket off his shoulders. She pushed him away and pulled his long-sleeved shirt up and over his head. His broad shoulders glistened with sweat in the moonlight coming in through the windows. He stopped for a beat. Taking a look at her, disheveled. Suddenly pure, not the man-handler she had been at the club. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't even know her name. Almost instantaneously, he also realized that he didn't care. It was so unlike him, to be so nonchalant. Her eyes were saying yes, so he scooped her up into his arms and made his way to his room.
She wanted him in a way that was almost unnatural. Dalia was a virgin and yet, when he dumped her on his bed, she was the one to pull him down beside her. He slowly proceeded to undress her... carefully... deliberately... She was intoxicating. She closed her eyes as his mouth met hers and his body settled into hers... It was beyond perfection.
Everything looks a little different in the morning. Dalia opened her eyes and took in her strange surroundings. It took her half a second to realize what she had done. She flipped over in bed, relieved to find the other side vacant. She planted her feet on the floor, shocked by the cold engulfing her naked body. She scrambled to the floor by the foot of the bed in search of her clothes. She had her jeans up one leg when he appeared at the door, cradling a tray of fruit, pancakes and coffee. He looked at her and cocked his head.
"Going somewhere?" He asked, still blocking the doorway and still obviously unfazed. 'Shit. I forgot how good he sounds.' She thought as she looked down at her jeans which somehow refused to come up her leg. She realized she had the pants backwards and was flipping them around when...
"Well? Where are you going?" He asked again, moving into the room and setting the tray on the end of the bed.
"I don't know exactly how these things work so I was just gonna leave." She replied, planting one foot into a leg of her jeans.
"These 'things' don't work a certain way, but I would like you to stay for breakfast." He said matter-of-factly, as he nibbled on a strawberry.
"Breakfast?" She asked, credulously. "You don't even know my name."
He smiled, she couldn't tell if it was to her or himself, as he dipped the rest of his strawberry in whipped cream and bit it to the leaf.
"I'm Ahmed." He said in his perfect American accent. "And you are...?" He let the question taper off and raised his eyes to find her zipping up her jeans.
"Dalia." She replied, matching his accent perfectly.
"Beautiful name, beautiful girl. Now, will you please sit and have breakfast with me?"
She looked at him in awe, standing there in her jeans and black bra. He smiled at her and began to pat the spot next to him on the bed. She couldn't help but smile back. He may not have known her name, but he knew that smile. It was her smile of acceptance.



Powerful piece. Could you include paragraphs next time? they break up the text nicely and make it easier to read.

As for the situation described within, its great. New York in the winter is simply magical. There is this inherent need to keep warm in the freezing cold, almost forcing you to become intimate with other human beings...

Ive had many great experiences with the opposite sex in New York... that place is special for me :)

Thnx for your comment... I'm gonna edit the piece a little.. and also there are parts to come...
I like the way u phrased ur comment above. Maybe I'll quote u on it in a subsewuent piece! ;)

I'm assuming we can discuss royalties at the time of publishing ? ;)

of course I'll cut u in on the royalties! :P

I wouldn't screw the only person who reads my blog! :P

i read ur blog too..and its getting better and better!

Thnx bazaar,

Any chance those kinds of fictional stories could make into the mag? :P

no way in hell... :) bazaar cant and wont publish anything prevocative nor of a sexual nature.

You would have to eliminate any reference to booze, sex etc before u could submit it. However, thats the chanllenge, if you could write it in a way that it had two meanings, that would be cool ;)

The question was sarcastic, I write for Bazaar and am well aware of their abhorrance of controversial issues!

hmmm... a piece with dual meanings... that might be interesting...

what do you write under in Bazaar? im curious :)

Did u write for Octobers?

october? october..? yeah, I have one about a quarter life crisis and a short top ten list about ramadan... don't know if they'll make it in the mag tho, the editor never tells me in advance. I had two in septembers bazaar.. and I write under my own name. no psuedo-neurotic psuedonyms for me! :P
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