In the Interlude

Chapter 20 - Longing for More

Tom didn't answer right away.

"I want to spend time with you. Nothing more, no promises, no commitment. So, Thomas William Hiddleston, now it's my turn to ask: do you want to carpe the hell out of this diem with me?"

No, Tom didn't answer right away. He was at a loss for words. Pretty ironic for a man who was described at some point as having swallowed the dictionary.

And what could he even say? Nothing helps the loss of a spouse. Instead, he listened to his heart. He wanted to kiss her, to wipe the sadness, if not from her heart, then at least from her face.

And that was just what he did.

He kissed her. There and then.

On a small wall facing the Atlantic Ocean, the waves lapping up softly against the shore.

Oblivious to the people surrounding them and the social rules in a country that condemned even the smallest public displays of affection.

And long and deep they kissed. Until they were out of breath.

Aïcha leaned back and let out a small breath as she touched her fingers to her swollen lips. 

Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. Sometimes it's a conversation. And this one was filled with a hundred of unspoken words. Or at least that's how she felt it in her heart.

"I'll take that as a yes," she told him.

Aïcha shivered, starting to feel the cold of the ocean breeze. Tom offered his jacket but she suggested instead to go for a stroll, along the promenade, blending in with the locals.

Blending in with young couples holding hands, with young parents pushing strollers or trying to get hold of their running kids. Crossing paths with the occasional skateboarder or dog walker.

So, they walked and walked, and walked some more, holding hands, fingers intertwined.

And they talked and talked, not about the past, but about the future. About when they would see each other again, about their plans this summer. Tom might even have suggested meeting in Paris, if his schedule, and hers, of course, allowed that.

But in the meantime, they agreed on meeting in two weeks. On his last weekend in Casablanca. On her last weekend in Casablanca.

They were both leaving on the same day, Monday 1st of June. He was going back to London and she was going back to Paris to try and kick-start the new chapter of her life.

It was way past midnight when they pulled into the hotel's arched entry. She declined his invitation for a last drink, even if she was longing for more time with him, for more of him. But this was Morocco, not France or England. And hanging out in a hotel's bar so late was bound to get her in trouble.

Instead, she kissed Tom on the cheek and wished him a good night.

Tom stood there following Aïcha's car with his eyes until he couldn't see it anymore. Passing through the revolving doors, he debated with himself whether to go to the bar on his own but finally decided against it. He needed to be in his room. He could always raid the mini bar instead.

And the mini bar he raided, paying a steep price for that the following morning.

Tom rolled over and hugged his pillow to his chest. Trapped between sleeping and waking as if trapped between two worlds. His eyelids felt heavy and his head was pounding. Tentatively opening his eyes, he quickly closed them again as shards of sunlight pierced his eyelids like broken glass.

Rolling onto his back, a pillow on his face, a headache creeping up the back of his skull, he started piecing together the jigsaw bits of the night before.