Love, Lust 'n Geology (2ND DRAFT)

Scene 1.3

Samina found trashy romance novels as delicious as every female equivalent of Tom, Dick and Harry did. Well, almost as delicious. Each time she found herself drowning in a "sea of passion," a little glitch in her brain would send her bobbing back up to the surface. The problem was her academic background. It wasn't just that she was a Ph.D. candidate and had to be careful about who knew she was reading such stuff. It was that she read novels like she did science textbooks: carefully, analytically and, yes ... literally.

The hero would step towards her—actually towards the heroine, but you know. She'd feel his warm breath wafting through her hair—okay, maybe he wouldn't come quite so close right away. She'd be waiting oh, so nervously for him to kiss her. When he didn't—she preferred sensitive heroes who made sure she was on board before they crossed physical boundaries—she'd gaze up at him—shyly, of course. At that moment, according to the author, she'd find herself "drowning in his eyes." At that point, the river of passion would also evaporate, never making it to the sea, and she'd be left standing on a dry bed of dirt. How the heck could you drown in an eyeball? It was only an inch across.

And yet, as Samina gazed into Wolverine's eyes, she had a feeling not of drowning, but of being trapped, like a ray of light that's entered a perfectly cut gem, in his case a deep yellow topaz, and keeps ricocheting inside, unable to escape.

A rumble jarred her free from the spell of his eyes: Wolverine's voice, deep and resonant. "Mind if I join you?"

Her jaw slid open. She didn't think "her heart had leapt into her throat" because she could feel it working overtime in her chest, but something had because she was trying to speak, but no sound was coming out.

A quizzical frown now accompanied Wolverine's smile. He straightened up. "It's fine if you don't want me to."

Samina didn't know what she wanted. If the searing sun said to the tepid earth one day that it wanted to hang out, would the earth agree? She couldn't imagine a more fascinating ... or a more frightening offer.

The polite Indian took over. Samina nodded wordlessly.

"You do?"

She nodded again.

Wolverine's smile became sunny. He pulled out the chair he'd been leaning on and sat down. "Hi. My name's Tom," he said, extending his hand across the table.

Samina didn't accept the hand immediately. Instead, she studied it as if it were a small and possibly dangerous predator—a baby velociraptor perhaps. Tanned. Prominent veins. Large, but not beefy like Wolverine the Elder's. The nails practically manicured—no messy cuticles or trapped dirt from fieldwork. Perfect half-moons in the nail beds of the thumb and index finger—she couldn't see the rest. If the moons really did indicate health, like she'd read somewhere, his was perfect.

No openings for adamantium claws along the knuckles, though. Yeah, because he was Tom, not Wolverine, although she'd probably never be completely convinced. Besides, the claws sliced their way through Wolverine's skin each time they emerged. A smattering of hair between the first and second knuckles. Could that mean ...? Samina's chest slowly began to heave.

She lifted a hand that was now made of lead while her eyes travelled up to Wolverine's—uh, Tom's—crazy, handsome, face. They made a pit stop at his collar. Even close-up, the results were inconclusive. Darn.

"Samina," she managed in a hoarse whisper.

"What?" he said, leaning towards her and cocking his ear while his hand, warm and slightly rough, enveloped hers in a firm grip.