On his way to the bar his eyes met hers.
If she were a ray of light shining casually across the book case, she would have rested at Murakami.
Her vague smile must have had a magnetic attraction because suddenly he found himself standing next to her.
Before long their hips moved in the same rhythm and their bliss dripped from their faces in the form of sweat.
For minutes they were alone for hours and only when the Cuban musicians played their last chord they slowly came to their senses.
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Want to read more of my short stories?
My author page: Terrence Weijnschenk at Amazon
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