The German

She was with her friends at a pub in a small dorf outside Nuremburg, Germany. She saw him walk into the bar as she finished her third Guinness. His head was shaved and he wore baggy khaki shorts that came down to his shins, a wife-beater tank and well-worn combat boots. She saw him walk back out with a friend. The chain from his wallet caught the candlelight from her table as he walked by. He never even looked at her.

Later that night she saw him again, this time he saw her too. She had put back a few more Guinness and a shot or two of tequila. He was moving to the tiny dance floor of the Green Goose Pub. He didn’t even speak her language, completely foreign. She got to the dance floor and was suddenly inches away from him. They moved in time, grinding together to Nine Inch Nails. She teased him, close enough to actually touch his earlobe with her wet lips, but only to back away. The music was throbbing through their bodies and even though other people were surrounding them, they felt completely alone. Both were enjoying the possibilities.

She was in his arms now and could smell the sweat on his body. He held her tight as she moved her hips against his. She felt his face brush her neck and knew where this was headed. It was so deliciously erotic and exciting. Then the song ended. They pulled away from each other. She made herself walk over to where her friends were standing; all of them drunk too. They didn’t notice the flush of her face, the look in her eyes. They didn’t know that she could barely stand,  that her knees were shaking and her pulse racing against rationality.

She found him as she looked back across the pub on her way out. He was looking at her, not smiling but mirroring the look in her eyes. They didn’t even speak the same language but there was no doubt they were thinking the same thing. She turned and walked up the stairs into the cool and sobering October air pulling her jacket around her shoulders. Her friends led her to the taxis and she didn’t look back again. She knew if they hadn’t been there, she would be tasting the sweat on his skin again…right now…on that smoke-filled dance floor.

The taxi took off in the direction of home, of work, of that killer hangover she was sure to have tomorrow. She wanted to go back, to remember the feel of his warm body and the smell of his breath on her cheek, the vapor of potential sex. Nevertheless, tomorrow would come too fast and reality would be the first in line to slap her in the face. It was better to just let it go, she told herself, and reluctantly but resolutely did.



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