In the Interlude

Chapter 50 - The Band-Aid

Aïcha switched off the TV and was greeted with her own reflection on the shiny black screen. She tugged a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her skirt. She couldn't see the puffiness under her eyes, but she knew it was there. No tea bags or cucumber could cover it even if she had tried.

With a sigh, she opened the door. Tom stood there, eyes bluer than the sky glimmered back at her. He looked perfect. In every way. He had a slight tan that brought out the freckles over his pointed nose. It spoke of time outside. Running maybe, she wondered. Or did he go on holidays? His hair was back to its natural colour - strawberry blonde. How she had longed to see him like that and pass her hand through his curls.

She looked away and let him in. He followed her to the middle of the room where they stood facing each other.

Her auburn hair was shorter now, a side fringe tucked behind her ear, the long nape of her neck deliciously bare. But then he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wanted nothing but to hold her in his arms.

He had imagined this moment so much in his head. He had played with the words, sometimes big, sometimes small. But now in front of her, he didn't know what to say.

"You're not answering my calls or texts," he finally blurted out.

She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear again, knowing well it would fall back on her forehead. Since she had cut it short on a whim one Saturday afternoon, her hair had a life of its own.

Crossing her arms, she said, "You told me to never ever speak to you again." Her voice came out angry, she knew that. But Tom had hurt her when he had called that evening, after she had sent the text she very much regretted now. He was plastered and fuming and didn't leave her the chance to even mutter a hello.

He sighed. "I know. That was very stupid of me. I tried to apologise so many times."

She held his gaze for a moment and finally turned away getting into the small kitchen, the linoleum cold under her bare feet.

His eyes caught the exposed back zipper on her skirt and all he wanted to do was to pull on that down. He shook his head and followed her to the kitchen.

"Pardon," she said, gesturing to the cupboard behind him.

He stood aside while her hands reached to pull out two mugs. His eyes travelled over the shape of her breasts straining against her shirt, the curve of her hip under her short skirt, the nail polish on her barefoot...

"Do you want coffee or tea?" she asked and plugged in the electronic kettle.

"I want you," he answered, his hand reaching hers.

"Tom..." she warned, and as she jerked her hand away, one of the mugs fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Careful!"

Aïcha took a step back avoiding the shards by a thread.

"Don't move." Tom picked her up and put her on the bed before kneeling in front of her inspecting her foot. There was a little blood on the side. "Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

She wrinkled her nose. "Not really, I can barely feel anything."

"Let me clean that up. Is there a first aid kit somewhere?"

"I have disinfectant and band-aids in my toiletry kit. In the bathroom."

Tom was back seconds later, kneeling again in front of her. Aïcha clasped her own hands between her thighs, resisting the urge to pass her hands through his curls.

"It's just a scratch," he declared, putting a band-aid on the small cut.

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes on his hand clasped around her ankle, stroking the side of her feet with his thumb. It felt like a burn to her skin.