An Excerpt from Daria Karpova's Flesh Will Tell The air was sweet and wet with rain. Puddles reflected the golden spheres of street lamps like black mirrors. A warm breeze whispered in the chestnut trees. Floria walked through the neon-slicked night like it belonged to her. She danced through an empty square and strolled down the boulevards. Her hair was loose, and her dress was a long slip of black silk that left her arms bare. The rain kissed her lips. The night shrouded her in a dark armor of recklessness. Men watched her, called to her, and whistled after her, but none dared to approach, as if her illness -- or her insanity -- hung around her like a warning cloud. She lingered in front of a jewelry store window. The central piece sat proudly on a crimson velvet pillow -- an enormous, magnificent aquamarine, shaped like a mermaid's tear. No frame, and it didn't need any. A platinum chain curled modestly beside it. Floria thought of the man's eyes and smiled. Then she placed her hand on the doorknob and entered the store, dripping water on the flawless parquet. She pulled her credit card out of her purse and waved it in front of the clerk. Ten minutes later, she gazed at her reflection in the store's mirror, her eyes gleaming, her hair cascading down her back in damp black waves. The aquamarine hung between her breasts, fitted perfectly just above the low cut of her dress. She left the card and the purse in the store. She didn't need them anymore. She strolled along the embankment for a while, watching the dark waters of the river. She didn't know how to swim. But the night was so young still, so full of grace. She ascended a bridge and leaned on the banister. The lights of the city winked at her. She sang a little, in a quiet, childlike voice, but the feebleness of it made her want to cry, and so she stopped. A dark, curving street led her away from the river. Old apartment buildings flanked both sides, barely a light in their windows. She slid through the darkness of the sleeping quarter like a creature of the night, noticed by no one. The leaves on the chestnut trees whispered among themselves, and she wished she understood their secret language. On another street, a branch hung low, heavy with flowers, and she whispered, “Thank you,” and rose on tiptoe to inhale the heady sweetness of the blooms. Once again in the heart of the city, she greeted the neon rainbows with a smile. Music leaked through the sounds of the street, and she went where it led her. A restaurant, all pink and gold inside, windows open in the warm spring night. People at the tables, smiling, drinking -- and over there in the corner, a white concert grand. The pianist was handsome, his ebony skin a fabulous contrast to his cream silk shirt. He played with joyous abandon, head thrown back, eyes closed in the throes of passion. The sounds spilled from his fingers through the heart of the piano; delicate like apple tree flowers, they trembled and danced in the air, flowing into in a starry haze that filled her soul with a longing she couldn't name. A presence leaked through the darkness, touching her skin. She turned, and there he stood at the maw of a narrow lane, on the asphalt striped with wet neon. This time, he wore black, but electric gold spilling from a high window above him defined his silhouette flawlessly against the darkness of the lane. His sea-green eyes smiled at her, brighter than the gems in the jewelry store. So bright, they seemed to refract light instead of merely reflecting it. He smiled, teeth gleaming white in the shadows. A cat, tawny and spotted like a leopard, leaped off the lid of a dumpster and wove around him, rubbing against his legs. Floria fancied herself a cat, too, then smiled at her whim. The man kept his silence. What was he, a stalker? What did it matter? She walked out of the pool of light in which she stood, and entered the welcoming darkness, feeling little gasps of wind on her bare arms and shoulders. He didn't move, not until she came close enough to catch his breath, cool and aromatic. She lifted her chin, looking him in the eyes. For an endless moment, the world froze in crystalline clarity; then his mouth crashed over her, and she swayed, grasping his shoulders to stay upright, the dark silk of his shirt soft and sleek beneath her fingers. He tasted wonderful inside, sweet and wild. Blood rushed through her veins, making her lightheaded. His arms clasped around her waist, and she pressed closer to melt into him. He stepped back, and she followed like in a dance, their kiss unbroken, their rhythm flawless. A trembling ache filled her, rising like a tide until need swallowed her whole. Deep into the womb of the lane, broken glass crackled under their feet. Graffiti covered the rough brick walls. The only source of light was a dim round lamp screwed into the lowest section of a rusty fire escape. She leaned against the wall. It was hard and unyielding against her back, a delightful contrast to the living warmth of the man in her arms. He pulled her into another lingering kiss, and she moaned into his mouth, slipping her hand between their bodies to stroke him, finding him hard and ready. Her hand slid off as he knelt, gliding down her body, planting kisses on his way down from her throat to her breasts. Tingles scattered under her skin, glittering and restless, and she arched against him. He licked her stomach through the thin material of her dress, then rubbed his face against her groin like a cat, and she couldn't wait anymore. © Daria Karpova, January 2006 All Rights Reserved