Table 7
by Sara Clark
Genre: Romance
Swearwords: None.
Description: Two lovers meet on a winter’s night in Damascus.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Two lovers meet on a winter’s night in Damascus.
Lilith gazed into the sleek, dark water of the ornamental pool, and held her hand over the place where the peak of the fountain slowed and opened out, caressing the firm, powerful surface as if it were his skin. She sighed, closed her eyes and thought of him again, pressing her palm deeper in until the rush of her blood seemed fused to the torrent. Then she picked up a piece of granite and tossed it into the pool, where it whirled for a moment in the starry waters before settling onto the bright mosaic that lay beneath. It was only a little wish she made, small, impossible and about him. She sat down on the edge of the pool, veiled by the hanging leaves of the willow tree, the moon-blue light cutting the world into bright lines as the shaded fronds trembled against her neck. The sweet air of Damascus sent ripples through her as she imagined him behind her, each shiver a brush of his fingers, each touch of a leaf on her cheek, a gentle kiss. Then something perfect happened - she saw him, standing on the path at the edge of the courtyard, and gazing back at her. The stare which had once unnerved her was so intense it seemed to split her into stars - featureless points of light trembling open and creeping toward him until he could barely see her at all through the gleam of the flame she had become.
Hassan knew it was her, lit by faint moonlight, bright and dainty as a nightingale, in a dress that shone the colour of water beneath a winter sky. She was to him now as an odourless blossom in the snow, eternally beautiful, but too cold and far away to ever touch. He was about to turn around and walk back to the house when she looked up at him, unsmilingly. At that moment, he felt something inside him suddenly crumple. It was as though the sight of her had released a flock of swallows from within his breast, fluttering out from his heart and into the sparkling night sky. Shattered with unsatisfied desire, he felt himself drifting toward her, slow as a ghost in the darkness at first, then bolder, then faster, until each step he took became the beat of a drum inside him, a loud and endless rhythm that sped him through a heat so fierce, he felt he was melting away at the edges. It was love that bore him forward.
"Hassan?" she asked the cold air, feeling his arms were around her already. She caught sight of him then - his breath a fragile trail of steam, his silhouette a beautiful shape in the distance. As he approached, the glance he cast her in the darkness sent ripples of panic and delight through her, spikes of pleasure so pure she felt sure they would kill her before the two could touch.
He walked toward her voice, like a risen man moving lifelessly among graves, following the calls of holy bells to his salvation. Forward he walked, now realising that this was what he'd been doing since the moment he met her - it was as though she had casually cast a noose around his breast that day which had been gently closing ever since, straining a little tighter each time they saw each other, until one morning he could barely breathe, and now, the rope was taut and could be pulled no more without drawing him helplessly toward her, no matter how hard he struggled to free himself.
The flash of a bomb lit up the distant sky, then all was silent.
Hassan knew it was her, lit by faint moonlight, bright and dainty as a nightingale, in a dress that shone the colour of water beneath a winter sky. She was to him now as an odourless blossom in the snow, eternally beautiful, but too cold and far away to ever touch. He was about to turn around and walk back to the house when she looked up at him, unsmilingly. At that moment, he felt something inside him suddenly crumple. It was as though the sight of her had released a flock of swallows from within his breast, fluttering out from his heart and into the sparkling night sky. Shattered with unsatisfied desire, he felt himself drifting toward her, slow as a ghost in the darkness at first, then bolder, then faster, until each step he took became the beat of a drum inside him, a loud and endless rhythm that sped him through a heat so fierce, he felt he was melting away at the edges. It was love that bore him forward.
"Hassan?" she asked the cold air, feeling his arms were around her already. She caught sight of him then - his breath a fragile trail of steam, his silhouette a beautiful shape in the distance. As he approached, the glance he cast her in the darkness sent ripples of panic and delight through her, spikes of pleasure so pure she felt sure they would kill her before the two could touch.
He walked toward her voice, like a risen man moving lifelessly among graves, following the calls of holy bells to his salvation. Forward he walked, now realising that this was what he'd been doing since the moment he met her - it was as though she had casually cast a noose around his breast that day which had been gently closing ever since, straining a little tighter each time they saw each other, until one morning he could barely breathe, and now, the rope was taut and could be pulled no more without drawing him helplessly toward her, no matter how hard he struggled to free himself.
The flash of a bomb lit up the distant sky, then all was silent.
About the Author
A poet, editor and novelist, Sara Clark was recently appointed the writer in residence at the Damascus Drum Café, Hawick, where she is writing a series of stories set in the café, to be displayed on the tables there.