Stranger In Translation by Charles Raines

Author:Charles Raines [Raines, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Charles Raines
Published: 2012-05-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

“I know another way.” I followed the jogger in his tight vest and clingy shorts along the tree-lined perimeter of the cemetery wall to a secluded spot. The stone had crumbled, leaving a gap on the top. He’d already climbed up. A firm hand stretched out to mine. A short jump and we were in.

I had butterflies in my stomach. I felt peculiar. And that feeling was becoming all too familiar. Was it the guilt of doing something I shouldn’t? The thrill of anticipation or the risk of vulnerability? Or was it merely the touch of a hand that had sent sensual shudders through my body?

Nothing was said as we ambled our way through the shadowy trees and pretty flowers to our bench. Oh, it was our bench now… apparently. That took me by surprise too! We sat down and the silence lingered. It wasn’t awkward. It was, well… nice. It felt… right.

“We’ve really got to get a hold on this.” The comment took me by surprise.

“Just what I was thinking.” The words poured out of my mouth without thought.

“Maurice Mansour needs a life. We haven’t agreed on one yet.” Obviously, the initial remark had translated itself to each of us in different ways. And it wasn’t the language that was at fault. “I have a feeling he had humble beginnings. His parents had met late in life. They were from different backgrounds, different cultures. He was a ‘war baby’, born from the love of snatched autumn years in a time of uncertainty.”

“You’ve obviously given Maurice a great deal of thought.” Why did I sound sarcastic, hostile even? Here was a young man, sitting next to me on a bench in a cemetery, unafraid to voice suggestions that were sensitive and romantic, almost poetic. Men didn’t do that. Men were brash, raucous, tough. “Nice thought,” I mumbled, watching him closely as his eyes concentrated on the headstone.

I shivered. The evening was taking on a chill. I really had no idea of the time and I didn’t want to look at my watch. I didn’t want to look anywhere, but at him. At that particular moment, he was hypnotic, the only person in my world. There was something about him, something I felt drawn toward. I couldn’t help myself. His profile was imperfect, rugged yet tantalising. His olive skin, lazy lips, and dark stubble made him as exotic as his voice. And the story in his face intrigued me. But that would have to wait. Maurice Mansour needed to be fleshed out first.

Thoughtful silence returned. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but we were no longer sitting apart, on either end of our bench. We were sitting together, close enough for each to sense the nearness of the other. The skin on his arm gently brushed against the skin on mine. His right leg repeatedly nudged against my left leg as the animation in his conversation waxed and waned. Yet he was oblivious to any fleeting contact. He was concentrating on Maurice Mansour.

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