Are you okay?
The
unmistakable odour of beer that wafted from his breath, though faint,
did not go unnoticed by her. Probably after a boys’ night out, she
thinks, not able to detect a hint of perfume on him. She nods, still
catching her breath after the physically-demanding ordeal. Though
brief, it had not let her senses revert to normal as quickly as she
would have liked.
He
proceeds to move, by foot, but an impulsive gust of cold air blasted
through the gaps offered by the closely packed skyscrapers surrounding
them, almost seemingly directed at the alley where they both are.
Instinctively, she snuggles closer to him, pressing up against his
frame. His windbreaker and sweatshirt offer no means of denying the
taut, defined upper torso of the man whom she had just chanced upon
moments ago. Her hands flew around his neck, and upon contact with her
own wind-chilled hands, branded her skin with the heat of the warm red
liquid pulsating through his veins, giving her the very warmth that she
so obviously needs now.
She
can feel his pulse now; it is steady and strong, though slightly
escalated. She wonders if it is her, their proximity prompting it
faster than usual. Or maybe it was just a result of the brawl?
He
had appeared as suddenly as the wind; just in time to prevent further
harm from being done. His swift, powerful kicks were strongly
reminiscent of Taekwondo; his fists perhaps some form of wushu or
whatsoever. She was no martial arts expert; otherwise she would have
been able to just walk away unscathed, with or without his presence.
Having
shifted briefly in his arms, she can feel her ankle rapidly gaining the
true form of a ripening tomato inside her boot, after a dose of pain
caused by a stick-wielding hooligan in a foiled robbery attempt. She
wonders if it was the four-inch heels that contributed to her hindrance
of her own execution of martial arts she has in knowledge and practice
– or was it lack thereof in the first place? No, it must be her.
Accomplished martial artists shouldn't face much problems combating in
heels, especially against untrained assailants. It was just three
unarmed and one not…at least she managed to down one and immobilize
another. Heels DO come in handy, particularly when you are faced with
rowdy specimens of the male species, and fleeing is an option
unavailable. The gradient of her soles, however, is not helping her
ankle in any way, if not exacerbating at all.
His
grip shifts too, firm yet gentle, on the back of her knees, just above
her boots and quite a bit below her hemline. His bronze hands, though
ungloved, radiated more than sufficient warmth to regulate the
temperature of her bare porcelain skin where they contacted. His other
arm immediately seeks her back, drawing her closer than she had gone.
He
starts to move again, by foot, departing the alley which brought them
together. He walks with a sureness that she admires, yet his touch has
eluded her, unyielding in its meaning, if any, unlike hers. She rests
her head on his shoulder, and chooses to ignore the notion, and rather,
savour the moment, when he whisks her off to calm, away from the
unforgiving autumn wind, away from the unmasked illuminations of the
streetlights, away from the uncertainty of the city, in the heat of the
night.
