The curves of her body reminded him of the gently rolling hills below the mountains where he lived as a boy.
Her brown eyes were the land to him.
She was beautiful like the land, like the flowers he found as he roamed the countryside barefooted, like the leaves of the trees that sparkled green after the rains of the rainy season.
“Estoy aqui,” he whispered
“Estoy aqui,” she whispered.
They listened to the sound of the rain on the window of the old hotel in the city, and made love to the rolling thunder and flashing lightning of the evening storm beside the sea.
- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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