Post by goldenmyst on Jul 16, 2019 23:07:19 GMT -6
Rudabeh and John
John enters the Langenstein’s grocery store and picks up a loaf of French bread. It is straight out of the oven and his mouth waters. He feels something brush against his derriere. A woman in jeans touches him on the shoulder. Her face glows with warmth, a feminine aura that envelopes him. She says, “Sorry I bumped you. These aisles are so narrow.”
John replies, “Hey, no problem.”
He forgets to put down the bread continuing to hold it between the two of them. She stands there squeezing the long soft loaf, inhaling the sweet scent. She says, “I’m always bumping into people. I guess I’m sort of clumsy.” Her fascination with the stick of bread is wordless.
John feels self-conscious when she fondles the bread which he holds like a baton between them. Her nose opens to smell the fresh bread. Her hands clasp the warmth which John also feels through the crisp paper. She says, “I love French Bread too. When it’s fresh out of the oven, it’s delicious.”
John puts the loaf back and chuckles. She rests her hand gently on his shoulder and rests her hip against the shelf.
John picks up the loaf of French Bread again. She says, “My name is Rudabeh. We’re having a banquet at the hotel where I am a night clerk. The party is for the staff but I can get you in because the owner defers to me in his decisions both business and personal. Even when he puts up a fuss I have the last word.”
John says, “Sounds like a married couple.”
She replies, “Oh no, he is too much of a geek to date. The dinner is potluck. But if you load the groceries in the car that can be your contribution to the feast.”
Upon arrival at the Inn, a guy with a calculator in his shirt pocket approaches looking like a spurt under pressure. He tells Rudabeh, “This is an employee-only event. Get this guy with the bell-bottoms out of here. Get a load of that mullet. Disco still sucks.”
She tells him, “Carl, your horn-rimmed glasses went out of style decades ago.”
Carl replies to her, “Rudabeh, nerds sent men to the moon. What did Disco do for the world?”
She tells him, “Disco was a nation unto itself. Disco never declared war. But those same rockets that sent men to the moon carry nuclear weapons.”
Carl says, “I’m out of here. If you want to cavort with a loser like him who am I to stop you?”
Baked Alaska goes down well with the merlot and he sits on the couch of the makeshift dining hall.
This place of rest is called “the Inn of Abu Masrur,” from the stories told by Scheherazade. And so the strange tale begins again. His first night in the mythical hotel finds him greeted by the three ladies from the book. John sits on a Divan where the red-headed woman plants herself on his lap. She wears a camisole whose flimsy design she takes advantage of by parting it to reveal what lies beneath. She asks John, “Good sir, what name does this go by?”
John smiles at his good fortune to be in the company of not one but three beautiful women. He ponders for just one minute. Then he says, “I would call it your ‘masterpiece of God.’”
She slaps him briskly across the face and says, “Fie. How dare you blasphemy on the almighty?”
The blonde lady hops into John’s lap with a smirk. She wears a nightgown which she conveniently lifts up to expose herself below the waist. She too opens her thighs to uncover the mystery there. She asks John, “Good sir, you look to be of good breeding and will surely answer me politely. Tell me as a man to a woman. If you were a dictionary writer what would you call mine?”
I say, “Yours is as grand and lush as the confluence of the ancient Tigris and Euphrates.”
This time the lady smacks both his cheeks until his silly smile melts. She tells him, “How dare you? Mine is not oversized and gaping as those rivers you speak of. Surely a petite flower is more suitable. You do me a disservice by such a comparison.” She pinches John’s nipples through his shirt and pulls his hair.
John wonders when they will relent. Then Rudabeh the black-haired hostess who invited him jumps into his lap with her smile a promise of more than slaps and pinches. She wears a bathrobe whose belt she undoes to give him an eyeful of her treasure.
She asks John, “Good noble knight. Just gaze down upon my fleece from heaven. So much rides upon this. You may be my future husband. But this is no mere formality. The words that spill from your mouth will choose our fate.”
John replies, “Yours is the botanical gardens of Babylon whose fragrance rivaled a thousand roses.”
“You have picked the spot where I wiled away the hours in centuries ago. There you and I fell in love. So you see, though it no longer exists it rests sacred in my memory.”
John replies, “I remember the figs we shared in the shade of the trees. But the sweetest fruit of those gardens was your kiss.”
She says, “Let me kiss you to see if my lips are still as sweet.”
The rough play is over now that Rudabeh minty kiss is upon him. He says, “We’ll buy our poor man’s figs rolled in cookies from the dollar store. That way we’ll have them out of season.”
She says, “Honey, just hide those sweets from me or else my Babylonian figure will be history.”
John enters the Langenstein’s grocery store and picks up a loaf of French bread. It is straight out of the oven and his mouth waters. He feels something brush against his derriere. A woman in jeans touches him on the shoulder. Her face glows with warmth, a feminine aura that envelopes him. She says, “Sorry I bumped you. These aisles are so narrow.”
John replies, “Hey, no problem.”
He forgets to put down the bread continuing to hold it between the two of them. She stands there squeezing the long soft loaf, inhaling the sweet scent. She says, “I’m always bumping into people. I guess I’m sort of clumsy.” Her fascination with the stick of bread is wordless.
John feels self-conscious when she fondles the bread which he holds like a baton between them. Her nose opens to smell the fresh bread. Her hands clasp the warmth which John also feels through the crisp paper. She says, “I love French Bread too. When it’s fresh out of the oven, it’s delicious.”
John puts the loaf back and chuckles. She rests her hand gently on his shoulder and rests her hip against the shelf.
John picks up the loaf of French Bread again. She says, “My name is Rudabeh. We’re having a banquet at the hotel where I am a night clerk. The party is for the staff but I can get you in because the owner defers to me in his decisions both business and personal. Even when he puts up a fuss I have the last word.”
John says, “Sounds like a married couple.”
She replies, “Oh no, he is too much of a geek to date. The dinner is potluck. But if you load the groceries in the car that can be your contribution to the feast.”
Upon arrival at the Inn, a guy with a calculator in his shirt pocket approaches looking like a spurt under pressure. He tells Rudabeh, “This is an employee-only event. Get this guy with the bell-bottoms out of here. Get a load of that mullet. Disco still sucks.”
She tells him, “Carl, your horn-rimmed glasses went out of style decades ago.”
Carl replies to her, “Rudabeh, nerds sent men to the moon. What did Disco do for the world?”
She tells him, “Disco was a nation unto itself. Disco never declared war. But those same rockets that sent men to the moon carry nuclear weapons.”
Carl says, “I’m out of here. If you want to cavort with a loser like him who am I to stop you?”
Baked Alaska goes down well with the merlot and he sits on the couch of the makeshift dining hall.
This place of rest is called “the Inn of Abu Masrur,” from the stories told by Scheherazade. And so the strange tale begins again. His first night in the mythical hotel finds him greeted by the three ladies from the book. John sits on a Divan where the red-headed woman plants herself on his lap. She wears a camisole whose flimsy design she takes advantage of by parting it to reveal what lies beneath. She asks John, “Good sir, what name does this go by?”
John smiles at his good fortune to be in the company of not one but three beautiful women. He ponders for just one minute. Then he says, “I would call it your ‘masterpiece of God.’”
She slaps him briskly across the face and says, “Fie. How dare you blasphemy on the almighty?”
The blonde lady hops into John’s lap with a smirk. She wears a nightgown which she conveniently lifts up to expose herself below the waist. She too opens her thighs to uncover the mystery there. She asks John, “Good sir, you look to be of good breeding and will surely answer me politely. Tell me as a man to a woman. If you were a dictionary writer what would you call mine?”
I say, “Yours is as grand and lush as the confluence of the ancient Tigris and Euphrates.”
This time the lady smacks both his cheeks until his silly smile melts. She tells him, “How dare you? Mine is not oversized and gaping as those rivers you speak of. Surely a petite flower is more suitable. You do me a disservice by such a comparison.” She pinches John’s nipples through his shirt and pulls his hair.
John wonders when they will relent. Then Rudabeh the black-haired hostess who invited him jumps into his lap with her smile a promise of more than slaps and pinches. She wears a bathrobe whose belt she undoes to give him an eyeful of her treasure.
She asks John, “Good noble knight. Just gaze down upon my fleece from heaven. So much rides upon this. You may be my future husband. But this is no mere formality. The words that spill from your mouth will choose our fate.”
John replies, “Yours is the botanical gardens of Babylon whose fragrance rivaled a thousand roses.”
“You have picked the spot where I wiled away the hours in centuries ago. There you and I fell in love. So you see, though it no longer exists it rests sacred in my memory.”
John replies, “I remember the figs we shared in the shade of the trees. But the sweetest fruit of those gardens was your kiss.”
She says, “Let me kiss you to see if my lips are still as sweet.”
The rough play is over now that Rudabeh minty kiss is upon him. He says, “We’ll buy our poor man’s figs rolled in cookies from the dollar store. That way we’ll have them out of season.”
She says, “Honey, just hide those sweets from me or else my Babylonian figure will be history.”
