In the Interlude

Chapter 16 - Blurred Lines

It was close to midnight when Aïcha finally retreated to the warmth of her own bed, exhausted from her weekend: the drive to and from Marrakech, the early wake up on Sunday and the emotional turmoil Tom had caused simply by kissing her.

There had been a twinge of sadness when they earlier said goodbye. She saw it in his eyes. She felt it in her heart. And there was no doubt in her mind that she liked him. A lot. She felt overwhelmed just thinking of him. 

Tom was a very attractive man, but that wasn't why she felt so drawn to him. Well, not the only reason. There were many reasons in fact. His smile. His voice. His hands. The way he said her name, the way he raised one eyebrow higher than the other, the way he ran his fingers through his curls. She liked his passion, his energy, his strong yet calm sense of determination. She liked how she felt when he looked at her with his deep blue eyes. Wanted. Desired.

And the kisses, oh the kisses. She couldn't believe she had kissed him like that, stunned by her own visceral reaction to his touch. She knew it wasn't just because she hadn't been kissed for a while. No, it was pure Tom magic.

Earlier that afternoon, her phone vibrated in her pocket signalling an incoming text.  

Trying to learn my lines but all I can think of are the lines of your lips. Hope you arrived home safely.

Aïcha didn't know how to respond to that. Thank God her daughter was in the other room when she received his text or the crimson blush of her neck and face would have certainly betrayed her.

And so here she was, finally settling in bed, her daughter sound asleep in her own room. And she still didn't know how to answer Tom. Nonchalantly? Flirtatiously? Apologetically?

"Get a hold of yourself," she said to no one but herself.

After spending some time second-guessing every word she could think of, deleting and rewriting the bloody text, she finally decided on sending an ambiguous yet witty answer. That's what she was hoping to achieve in any case.

Yes, made it home safe and sound. Now I'm in bed, the lights already off, ready to fall into the arms of Morpheus. Merci pour ce week-end.

Her phone made a swoosh sound as she hit the send button. Seconds later, it started vibrating.

"Hi darling, so a little bird told me you were in bed."

Warm and swirly feelings snuck into her stomach upon hearing Tom's raspy voice. "Your little bird is well informed. What else did it tell you?"

"Well, that's the problem. It doesn't have night vision. So I was hoping you can shed some light on this important question I have. Aïcha, what are you wearing?"

See, why did she have to poke the bear? It had been a long time since she flirted with someone and she had no clue on how to play this game. Aïcha blushed at the thought of describing her clothes on a phone to a guy she spent the morning kissing, and the rest of the day thinking of.

"Just wearing a tank top and yoga pants," she answered matter-of-factly, hoping to steer the conversation to a more neutral ground. But she was wrong.

So wrong.

"Is it anything like the top I saw you in this morning?".

Oh God. Aïcha remembered how embarrassed she was when she opened the door to Tom, while she was still wearing her pajamas. Her white top had left nothing to the imagination. She also remembered his strong hands finding their way under her t-shirt, touching and caressing her back. His beautiful, strong, soft hands. She sighed more loudly than she wanted to.

"That's classified information," she finally said.

Tom smiled. She was easily rattled. He liked that. "You can't talk about bed and tank tops and not follow through." 

Her breath stuck in her throat at his words. He was killing her. Softly. One word at a time. "Okay, so note to self, never ever talk about beds and tank tops with you. Got it."

"Oh no," he said, lowering his voice an octave. "I want you to say those words and I'm looking forward to seeing you follow through."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, sinking further into her bed, her hand involuntarily stroking her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out of it. So, she remained quiet.

Tom finally broke the silence. "Listen, I want to see you again. Next weekend. I can be in Casablanca Saturday late afternoon? Please tell me you're free."

And here it was again. The silent pause. No reply, just the sound of her breathing. The few times they had met, her face and eyes gave everything away. If only he could read her mind through the line.

"Tom, I don't know what to say."

"Say yes. Aïcha? I feel like you don't want to see me."

"No no I do," she answered quickly and went on, "I do want to see you again, but this is Casablanca, the city where I live, where my daughter lives."

"So, what are you saying?"

"Just that I need to think about this. Please. I'm sorry, Tom."

"That's okay darling, I understand."

They continued talking for a bit before he heard Aïcha stifling a yawn. "I think you're finally ready for Morpheus arms."

"Yes, I am. Bonne nuit, Tom."

"Bonne nuit, Aïcha."

"And Tom?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I didn't ask you, what are you wearing now?" Aïcha added in a whisper, the emphasis on the 'you'.

He pictured the smile on her full lips. "Who told you I was wearing anything? Good night Aïcha." Checkmate.

Tom put down his phone on the nightstand before turning off the lights. After filming in Marrakech, they were heading to Essaouira next Sunday for a week of shooting by the beach. He heard the city was famous for windsurfing and was looking forward to crossing that from his list-of-things-to-do-at-least-once-in-his-life.

He had been in Morocco for ten days so far, but it felt like so much longer. So much had happened since he arrived and caught sight of Aïcha with her daughter in Jemaa El Fna.

Tom adjusted his head on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling. He could not get her off his mind. Aïcha was definitely not his usual type. A mum, three years older than him –yes, he had done the math–, she lived in a world so remote from his own.

She was different, and that was exactly what he liked about her. Strong and kind. Fun to be around and clever. And more importantly, not dazzled by his fame or his world. She couldn't care less.

As he lay in the dark, his minded drifted back to the day's events. He recalled the taste of her lips on his own, the warmth of her skin under his touch, the curves of her body through her clothes, the look of desire in her eyes. And he wondered if she was thinking about the same thing.

Under different circumstances, he believed that this thing between them, this fling, could probably develop into something without an expiration date. But they both had different plans and they both knew their relationship wasn't going anywhere. He might as well make something beautiful out of it.