The Season of Burning Leaves
Summer was a fine time of year, undoubtedly. But Farah confessed to craving chilled nights and sudden colors, leaves flying and the smell of smoke. What kind of tree turned so incredibly orange? One of them grew on campus. The summer term was underway, and she couldn’t be happier with her classes and teachers, and she was making new friends, which was a relief. She could be a very shy person, particularly around men. It was her culture, and it was her nature too. She had always felt fat, even as a little girl. In a world where men ruled, being heavy was a curse. In a society where love was one thing and one thing only, a fat young lady might never find anyone to cherish her. But that wasn’t the case here. And that’s what she loved most about the Western world.
“And autumn leaves,” Quentin said.
She laughed easily and for far too long. Every burden had been discarded. The universe was thrilling and lovely and perfect. Women were so fortunate, she insisted. They could fall in love with whomever they wanted, and did Quentin know why? Because the female was the essential sex. Ladies didn’t exist just to make babies, but they were also the natural state of the species. Men were derived from women. Genetic research proved as much.
“I don’t remember that article,” he admitted, turning at the Clinic’s corner, aiming for the steel dog.
Ignoring every doubt, Farah explained how a woman could love another woman, and it was perfectly natural. Which wasn’t the case with men and men. Though some tried. She knew Persian males who dreamed of their own kind. Married, respectable fellows would meet in private locations for no purpose but tawdry sex. But women weren’t that way. Emotion was what mattered, she insisted. Before sex, two souls had to nest together like those little wooden dolls the Mongols made. What were they called? Not that it mattered. “Two souls nesting,” she repeated as they pulled up in front of her house. “That’s how it is with us. But for a man, it’s just sticking his business into a girl or a man. It’s geometry. Ten minutes and a mess.”
Quentin put his little car into neutral and looked at her.
In the history of the world, no human had ever been happier. It was the middle of a fine warm day, and nothing was wrong, which perhaps was why Farah said, “Why don’t you kiss me, husband?”
Then they pulled away, but she kept watching him.
“What?” Quentin asked.
“No, let me thank you.”
He could have asked, “How?” and could have waved her off, saying, “No need.” A multitude of answers went unsaid. But Farah unzipped his trousers, both hands easing his cock into the open. The right hand pulled it upright while the left stroked the underside, teasing that point just beneath the swelling head,
Quentin looked up and down the street.
“Do we have company?”
“The perfect day,” she said.
That first clear drop of fluid emerged, and her thumb pulled it down the shaft.
“This won’t take ten minutes,” he mentioned.
And she smiled--a fetching, utterly believable smile. “You don’t want to make a mess, do you?”
“I don’t care,” he said.
She shrugged, and the hand moved faster.
“When you’re close, tell me,” she said.
“I’m close,” he lied.
And then her head was down, teeth clipping the fringe of the glans before the mouth opened wider, and he pusher her down, his fingers crawling through the depths of that black, black hair.