Samba

from a story fragment I wrote two years ago, on Valentine's at that:

She’s still reeling. She can’t forget the way he would look at her, his eyes screamed her name, in a voice suffering in anguish because he could not touch her, should not touch her. He watched her walk towards where he was standing with his friends, shivering as she glided past him, the scent of midnight suddenly descending upon him. He wanted to breathe in her scent, behind that small circle of her ear, the pulse on her neck, her graceful collarbones where a delicate strand of silver flowers rest like fingers on ivory keys. He wanted to grab her, shake her, and embrace her till it hurt both of them. He would have kissed her, bitten her lips till they bled. Such desire he has never felt and it frightens him that she could have this power over him, seizing him all over.

He stayed outside the bar until they told her they were to start playing. He was playing the surdo that night. The sound of all the drums beating was inside him, rising like fire, all too loudly in his ears, in his chest. He beat the surdo with the palms of his hands with every cell of him screaming her name, Christine, Christine. Somewhere in the dark of the bar, she was dancing, the passionate rhythms of the samba captivating her; her arms circling her as her hips sway towards the fiery crescendo building up in her feet, her thighs, her stomach, sweat between her breasts, chests heaving; her head swirling with the sound of drums and her name which his eyes screamed…