a taste of morocco

«Ti piace il Marocco?» gli chiese Jared lievemente. Si stavano di nuovo guardando negli occhi, i visi così vicini che Colin poteva sentire il respiro di Jared sul mento. Il letto si muoveva leggermente vicino ai piedi di Colin, dove gli altri due stavano ballando. 
«È bellissimo» disse Colin alla stessa maniera. 
«Che cosa ti piace di piú?» Jared si avvicinó ancora un po’.
«Uhm…». Colin cercó di pensare. Marocco. Sí. Di che parlavano?
«L'acqua.»
Jared rise. Aveva labbra che sembravano incredibilmente morbide.
«La spiaggia qui a Melilla?»
«Sì. È carina.» Colin si avvicinó pure, ancora piú felice ora che Jared non si trovasse sotto le coperte con lui.
«È così…blu. L'acqua. E i tuoi occhi.»

A Taste Of Morocco- Marocco

I need to get a life.

I’ve been reading too much fanfiction lately. Nights and mornings gone by and I didn’t even notice. Damn. It’s killing me.

(gif vladavicious)

It reminded me of a scene in Jane Austen’s Persuasion, when poor heartbroken Captain Benwick recites one depressing love poem after another to Anne Elliott.

“[…] he repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a broken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he did not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly.”

Exactly! Taste it sparingly. Well, Captain Benwick got over it real soon by making out with Louisa Musgrove. I think there’s a message in that, too. :)

We would live by the beach. I would have a small herb garden. I would grow thyme and rosemary. I would wear an apron and make breakfast. You would smell my hair and tell me good morning. You would make the toast and set the table.

We would sit watching the waves while we ate. After we ate we would go for a walk along the beach. Barefoot. I would ask you to walk closer to the ocean. Our feet would touch the soft sand, and then as we walked further the sand would become damper and firmer. We would walk along the shore, cold water rushing over our toes and then retreating.

I would hold your hand and tell you stories about when I was a little girl. You would bring my hand to your lips and kiss my fingertips. You would tell me about places you’ve traveled to and what food tastes like in France and what it’s like to live Morocco.

And then I’d take my dress off and walk into the ocean and you would watch me. You would smile and join me. The water would be cold and our pulse would quicken.

You would touch my hair. I would touch your back. Gently tracing your spine with my finger tips.