by Shawn Ali
A warm Friday afternoon. I pushed myself extra hard on my workout today, so I'm laying on my bunk, resting and recuperating, and yes ... dreaming. I intentionally skipped last chow (dinner) as I have been doing for the pats three months now, and probably always will; unless, that is, I'm trying to go to the commissary (wink). They could be serving t-bone steaks, and I wouldn't go to last chow. Man shall not live by bread alone. I eat to live, I don't live to eat. Here lately, I have lost my appetite for carnal pleasures. What I hunger for my virtual cellie, I can't have, and my soul - not my stomach - growls from the emptiness I feel inside. My heart's appetite is ravenous, but I'm starving and hurting because I can't have what I hunger for. This too shall pass. I know, trust me, I know everything about patience and perseverance, but getting there in practice, to my desired destination, is the hard part. Damn, it's so hard sometimes. Why does it have to hurt so much?
| | With my steady breathing, my sore chest rises and falls. As my sleep deepens, I can feel my animated dreams taking me on a temporary, adventurous trip away from this hopeless place. I can hear the faint, familiar rhythm of a song playing. My finger touches the button on the state-of-the-art car console, increasing the volume, ♪♫ ♩ I never knew love, would feel like a heart attack ... I never knew love, would hurt this bad, worst pain that I ever had ♫ ♪ ♬. Damn, that's my jam, wish I would have written it. |
We - I can feel someone with me - cruise down the highway in the BMW Spyder i8 with the top down. The crisp wind of freedom feels like heaven on our faces. There is a woman with me, but I'm not sure who she is because she is faceless. She's wearing a smooth, oval-shaped featureless mask that fits and disguises her face perfectly. But I can see her glory. That is, her hair - black and long, blowing back wildly in the wind.
| The next song begins to play. This one is more upbeat and happy. Sure Thang by Miguel, which is another lyrical creation I wish I would have given birth to. ♪ ♫ Your love is a sure thang ♫ ♪. For a moment, I forget she is with me until I feel her manicured hand caressing my two-day stubbled face. Her feminine touch is comforting and forces a big smile onto my face. Whoever she is, I know she is my kind of woman because | |
she takes the time to get her nails done. I reciprocate, touch for touch, by brushing my fingertips over her thigh. The voice interjects, sounds like Mother nature is speaking seductively from the cloudy, blue sky and louder than the music.
Her voice. From my sleep, I can hear her voice. It's back. Even in my sleep, it's so recognizable. From her heart, her lips are calling out to me, but from where? "Here I come, Baby, I'll find you." The voice disturbs my dream and wakes me up, but when my eyes flick open, I'm not caged inside my tiny cell. Where am I? I look around as her voice fades. I'm somewhere else, a different dimension in my descriptive dreamworld. The backdrop is binary, black and white, with no color. everywhere I look is white, just like in The Matrix movie. I'm wearing all black (shorts, tank-top, shiny boots), and I spot a single black door in the distance. I've been here before during another dream. Where is she? I know she's somewhere.I can feel her eyes watching me.
"Shawn Ali, are you looking for me?" Her soft, silky soft voice casts a spell on me as soon as I hear it. I know it's her. Damn her. I turn around slowly. There she is, my beautiful Black Widow. So sweet, yet so deadly. Her mere presence arouses me instantly. Damn her again. I don't want to like her, but I do. Damn. I do, and she knows it.
"I don't want you dreaming about some other bitch, only me," she says petulantly, arms crossed. She is so cute.
"For all i know, that was you in the car with me, in human disguise."
"Maybe ... maybe not," a wicked grin betrays her words, "how did you know?" She surrenders fully to her broadening smile.
"There's nothing you can do without me knowing, I know all your tricks."
My Black Widow takes a few sexy steps closer to me. This is when I notice the only other color besides black or white that is showing in this dream is blue. Blue gemstone earrings in her cute elf ears. And there's a blue band holding her hair up. She reads my thoughts. Lifting her hand to the back of her head, she snatches the blue band out and throws it to the white floor. Ravishingly, her hair falls down. Reaching up with both hands, she tosses and flings her wild mane provocatively, which pushes out her perfect, petite breasts that are swollen into hard, painful points, aching for my touch and tongue. "Are you ready, Shawn Ali?" She gazes down lustfully, knowing that I'm always ready.
"Just go away and leave me alone." I turn away from her and ignore her. Because she likes me so much, avoiding her is my secret weapon and it's the best way I can get back at her for betraying me and killing me.
"No, I won't go away. You're mine!"
I hide my smile from her because I know it's true. I can avoid her for a period of time, but ultimately, I can't resist her. We are connected ... I feel it. "I can't keep going through this. Letting you use me for sex and then killing me. Find another spider to kill."
She steps swiftly in front of me and puts her hand on her hip. So cute. "You're mine, now, come on, make crazy love to me."
"No, I can't. In case you haven't noticed, I'm having trust issues right now." I say this, but I want her so bad it hurts.
"But we make such cute babies together, and all the other spiders are so ugly."
"I wouldn't know how cute our babies are since I don't get to live to see them."
"Oh, that's right. I'm so sorry I killed you Shawn Ali, but don't you see, it's in my nature to use you for what I want and then kill you."
"I don't care what's in your nature or what you think you're 'suppose' to do, our trust and how you feel about me should change you because you know you'll never meet another spider like me." A big, blue tear cascades down my cheek and splashes to the smooth, white floor surface. I break eye contact with her because I know if I lock eyes with her for too long I will fall willingly into her lustful, deadly trap again. A vivid dream I keep reliving.
Temptation gets the best of me and I glance up. I'm shocked by what I see. My beautiful Black Widow is transforming right before my tear-filled eyes. Her metamorphosis is magical as I witness my Black Widow becoming an exotic hybrid of a butterfly mixed with Tinkerbell.
She cradles her doll face with her hands and removes her mask. The fake face she was wearing drops to the floor and cracks in half. All this time, she was wearing a mask, and I didn't even know it. Actually, I did know, and I could see straight through it and see her soul, but sometimes I was blinded by the beautiful doll face mask.
I've never seen her like this, her natural, exotic beauty is so breathtaking. There is an innocent, vulnerable glow on her pretty face. I reach out and use my fingers to brush the loose, black strands of hair out of her eyes and I tuck them behind her ears. I have to look into her eyes. I'm mesmerized by her humble humanity, femininity, and smile. Look at that, she's actually smiling, and it looks genuine. It must be, because her cheer becomes contagious and now I'm smiling, too.
She looks different, in a good way, elegant and sexy. For some reason, maybe because I'm dreaming, my vision and coordination skills are acutely enhanced. I see something fall from her beautiful eyes, floating in the air, and catch it with my fingertip before it hits the floor. I hold it up to her, a single eyelash. "You dropped something."
"Make a wish," she says, as she flaps her majestic blue wings.
I stare into her eyes for a few hypnotic seconds, make my wish, and then I blow her eyelash off my finger. "I hope your eyelash contains a lot of power."
"Why?" she asks with happy tears in her eyes now.
"Because I made two wishes." And before she can ask, I go against superstition and tell her. "I wished to be free son, and ... " I hesitate.
"And what?"
"To meet you in reality." I caress her soft face with my hand.
A blue tear streaks down her face and several more follow. "I'm sorry I killed you," she says, and takes flight, flying in the direction of the solid black door that is self-opening.
"No, wait! Please, come back!" I yell, but it's for nothing. It's as if she doesn't even hear me. She looks back one last time and pauses before disappearing into the darkness of the door.
I sprint after her, running as fast as I can, but when I cross the line of demarcation from the all-white dimension of endless space into the all-black darkness of the door, she has vanished. Behind me, the door crashes shut, metal on metal, and starts to flicker white like a neon sign. The horizontal and vertical bars crossing each other is something I see every day: a cell door. I'm now wearing a white prison uniform that glows bright and radiant in the pitch-black darkness. Above my head, a white clothesline blinks and buzzes as if an electrical current is surging through it and stretches as far as I can see. There is something hanging from the line that I can't quite decipher. I take a step and they begin lighting up one by one, big illuminated rectangles that look like still photos developing in a darkroom.
The jumbo-sized photos are surreal and luminescent. The vivacious, liquid-crystal-display of each picture is like looking into a screen, where life in full, real-time motion is being lived out in each one. There she is, my baby. But she's not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but a beautiful woman. Each motion picture is a different snapshot of her, an interactive portal that I'm somehow able to enter, and become a living part of her existence just by looking at it. Who the hell is this woman?
In the first photo, our eyes lock, and I feel something supernatural inside of me that I've never felt. I take a step to the next pic. Hmm, I want to know more about this woman. Her head is tilted and she's eating crackers with her fingertips in this photo. We lock eyes again, but she shakes her head and looks away as if she's mad at herself for looking at me. Fine, be that way. In this one, her nails have just been done, sparkling and shining, with one nail painted blue. I eavesdrop on her as she writes in her calendar planner book. I wonder what she keeps a record of. I step. She's wearing a jacket. it's cold, but she suddenly becomes hot and takes it off. I stop and enter this photo. It's crazy because I don't even know her, and yet, I'm singing to her as i sway my hips and snap my fingers to the rhythm in my head. She smiles. She likes it. A lot. I leave her, eager for the next photo and encounter.
She's sitting with a female friend. They're talking but appear bored. I think I'll shake things up a bit. This time, instead of singing, I entertain her and her friend with a special, original dance I've been practicing for years. Their eyes widen with surprise and they are captivated by my unique dance moves. They must think I'm crazy. Either that, or extremely talented.
With each step I take, I get to know her a little more through each photo. Most of the photos are self-explanatory, but some of them make no sense. Like in this one, she's standing next to a wooden bookcase. For some strange reason, I remove my shoe, and then she slams both of her angry hands against the bookcase. I step. She licks her finger and turns a page, so I mimic her by licking my finger and turning a page. It becomes a fun game and an agent of communication between us.
In the next photo, she's touching her ear, so I play with my ear. She keeps trying to get me to dance for her and her friends, and though I bust a few sporadic moves just for her, she doesn't realize how sore it makes me afterwards. Since I'm beginning to really like this mystery woman, I feel like it's worth it for her. I don't know what it is, but I can't get her to dance for anything. She's becoming increasingly shy and nervous around me, maybe because she likes me so much. yep, she does.
Here in this photo, she's whispering and exchanging gossip giggles with her friends while she glances in my direction. She's at a shopping mall in the next picture, leaning so sexy against a wall, damn her skin is really glowing in this one. I purposely let my cup slip out of my hand and my drink spills next to her. Our eyes lock and time stops. I tell her how much I love her long, black hair. She tells me how much she loves the contrast of my bald-faded haircut with the two-day stud stubble on my face. In every picture, I want to see more of her and she wants to see more of me.
I keep stepping along the glimmering clothesline with the jumbo motion pictures. Each photo brings another interaction and experience I share with her. We become addicted to looking into each other's eyes and spending time together. But sadly, at some point, I become too much for her and her body can't handle heaven on earth. Because of my intensity and consistency, my intimacy overwhelms her. In a series of photos, I become her drug.
Every day, as soon as I arrived home, removed my shirt, and gave her that look, it got the the point that her legs would begin to move erratically in heated anticipation for what I was about to do to her. She couldn't handle, believe it or not, all the painful, rough sex and multiple orgasms, so we split up. I step. She looks so sad in these photos. I miss her and I know she misses me. There are hundreds of prophetic photos in front of me, maybe even thousands. Damn, when does this line of photos end?
As I'm about to take my next step, a door opens, and a light breeze and a shaft of sunlight shines into my dark dreamworld. The sexy shadow silhouette of a woman stands in the doorway. An irresistible force is pulling me to the door, but i fight it because I want to see the rest of the photos. I need to know what happens. What does the future hold for the mysterious woman in my dreams and me?
The woman is no longer standing in the doorway, but I'm still walking to it against my will. Like over-sized confetti, the hundreds of photos begin blowing in the air and falling to the floor like leaves in an Autumn wind. Without getting a chance to look at it, I snatch one of the photos out of the air, crumble it into a quick ball and shove it into my pocket.
I step cautiously through the door into the blinding light of freedom. My wardrobe changes automatically into some blue jeans, a snug-fitting t-shirt and some Jordans. There she is. Not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but the beautiful woman in all the photos and who I only know in my dreams. She's sitting in the driver's seat of one of my dream cars, BMW Spyder i8, with the passenger door open. "Are you ready?" she says, in the same sweet-toned voice that always sends warm tingles through my body.
"Hell yeah, I'm ready. Damn, you look so beautiful."
"Aww," she pouts her face. "Thank you. Now get in Shawn Ali, let's go."
I rush into the car, wanting to be with her so badly. Our fingers interlock. I slam the door shut with my other hand. We lean passionately into each other, our lips touch. Our wet tongues fight and twist in a hard, intense kiss that never seems to end. Then I kiss her lips several times, and all over her face, "mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk," I turn her head aggressively and kiss and suck on her neck, something I've been wanting to do since I saw that first photo of her and we locked eyes. After I wet and mark her neck real good, I ask her, "where are we going, my Black Widow?"
"Ugh, please stop calling me that," she smiles. "From now on, I want to be your Butterfly."
"Where are we going?" I ask, as I stroke her gorgeous hair.
She flips down her dark sunglasses over her beautiful eyes. "You'll see."
She starts the silent hybrid engine. The radio kicks on, still playing Miguel's Sure Thang ♫ ♪ even when the sun don't shine, I have faith in you and I, put your pretty little hand in mine ♪ ♫. I squeeze her hand and we drive off. On her license plate are ten letters in all capital letters: BLACK WIDOW.
[My eyes flick open. I'm awake and back inside of my tiny cell. "All officers prepare for count. All officers prepare for count," is the intercom announcement I'm hearing as my mind adjusts to reality. Damn, I slept that long, it's already count time. Almost two hours have passed, but it was a good two hours. I felt free and I was with her. My song notebook is still open on my chest. I almost forgot. I was tweaking one of my songs when I drifted off to sleep. I think of the title of my song, Are You Woman Enough For Me? If my mysterious, dream woman even exists, I wonder if she is woman enough for me.]
To be continued
Her voice. From my sleep, I can hear her voice. It's back. Even in my sleep, it's so recognizable. From her heart, her lips are calling out to me, but from where? "Here I come, Baby, I'll find you." The voice disturbs my dream and wakes me up, but when my eyes flick open, I'm not caged inside my tiny cell. Where am I? I look around as her voice fades. I'm somewhere else, a different dimension in my descriptive dreamworld. The backdrop is binary, black and white, with no color. everywhere I look is white, just like in The Matrix movie. I'm wearing all black (shorts, tank-top, shiny boots), and I spot a single black door in the distance. I've been here before during another dream. Where is she? I know she's somewhere.I can feel her eyes watching me.
"Shawn Ali, are you looking for me?" Her soft, silky soft voice casts a spell on me as soon as I hear it. I know it's her. Damn her. I turn around slowly. There she is, my beautiful Black Widow. So sweet, yet so deadly. Her mere presence arouses me instantly. Damn her again. I don't want to like her, but I do. Damn. I do, and she knows it.
"I don't want you dreaming about some other bitch, only me," she says petulantly, arms crossed. She is so cute.
"For all i know, that was you in the car with me, in human disguise."
"Maybe ... maybe not," a wicked grin betrays her words, "how did you know?" She surrenders fully to her broadening smile.
"There's nothing you can do without me knowing, I know all your tricks."
My Black Widow takes a few sexy steps closer to me. This is when I notice the only other color besides black or white that is showing in this dream is blue. Blue gemstone earrings in her cute elf ears. And there's a blue band holding her hair up. She reads my thoughts. Lifting her hand to the back of her head, she snatches the blue band out and throws it to the white floor. Ravishingly, her hair falls down. Reaching up with both hands, she tosses and flings her wild mane provocatively, which pushes out her perfect, petite breasts that are swollen into hard, painful points, aching for my touch and tongue. "Are you ready, Shawn Ali?" She gazes down lustfully, knowing that I'm always ready.
"Just go away and leave me alone." I turn away from her and ignore her. Because she likes me so much, avoiding her is my secret weapon and it's the best way I can get back at her for betraying me and killing me.
"No, I won't go away. You're mine!"
I hide my smile from her because I know it's true. I can avoid her for a period of time, but ultimately, I can't resist her. We are connected ... I feel it. "I can't keep going through this. Letting you use me for sex and then killing me. Find another spider to kill."
She steps swiftly in front of me and puts her hand on her hip. So cute. "You're mine, now, come on, make crazy love to me."
"No, I can't. In case you haven't noticed, I'm having trust issues right now." I say this, but I want her so bad it hurts.
"But we make such cute babies together, and all the other spiders are so ugly."
"I wouldn't know how cute our babies are since I don't get to live to see them."
"Oh, that's right. I'm so sorry I killed you Shawn Ali, but don't you see, it's in my nature to use you for what I want and then kill you."
"I don't care what's in your nature or what you think you're 'suppose' to do, our trust and how you feel about me should change you because you know you'll never meet another spider like me." A big, blue tear cascades down my cheek and splashes to the smooth, white floor surface. I break eye contact with her because I know if I lock eyes with her for too long I will fall willingly into her lustful, deadly trap again. A vivid dream I keep reliving.
Temptation gets the best of me and I glance up. I'm shocked by what I see. My beautiful Black Widow is transforming right before my tear-filled eyes. Her metamorphosis is magical as I witness my Black Widow becoming an exotic hybrid of a butterfly mixed with Tinkerbell.
She cradles her doll face with her hands and removes her mask. The fake face she was wearing drops to the floor and cracks in half. All this time, she was wearing a mask, and I didn't even know it. Actually, I did know, and I could see straight through it and see her soul, but sometimes I was blinded by the beautiful doll face mask.
I've never seen her like this, her natural, exotic beauty is so breathtaking. There is an innocent, vulnerable glow on her pretty face. I reach out and use my fingers to brush the loose, black strands of hair out of her eyes and I tuck them behind her ears. I have to look into her eyes. I'm mesmerized by her humble humanity, femininity, and smile. Look at that, she's actually smiling, and it looks genuine. It must be, because her cheer becomes contagious and now I'm smiling, too.
She looks different, in a good way, elegant and sexy. For some reason, maybe because I'm dreaming, my vision and coordination skills are acutely enhanced. I see something fall from her beautiful eyes, floating in the air, and catch it with my fingertip before it hits the floor. I hold it up to her, a single eyelash. "You dropped something."
"Make a wish," she says, as she flaps her majestic blue wings.
I stare into her eyes for a few hypnotic seconds, make my wish, and then I blow her eyelash off my finger. "I hope your eyelash contains a lot of power."
"Why?" she asks with happy tears in her eyes now.
"Because I made two wishes." And before she can ask, I go against superstition and tell her. "I wished to be free son, and ... " I hesitate.
"And what?"
"To meet you in reality." I caress her soft face with my hand.
A blue tear streaks down her face and several more follow. "I'm sorry I killed you," she says, and takes flight, flying in the direction of the solid black door that is self-opening.
"No, wait! Please, come back!" I yell, but it's for nothing. It's as if she doesn't even hear me. She looks back one last time and pauses before disappearing into the darkness of the door.
I sprint after her, running as fast as I can, but when I cross the line of demarcation from the all-white dimension of endless space into the all-black darkness of the door, she has vanished. Behind me, the door crashes shut, metal on metal, and starts to flicker white like a neon sign. The horizontal and vertical bars crossing each other is something I see every day: a cell door. I'm now wearing a white prison uniform that glows bright and radiant in the pitch-black darkness. Above my head, a white clothesline blinks and buzzes as if an electrical current is surging through it and stretches as far as I can see. There is something hanging from the line that I can't quite decipher. I take a step and they begin lighting up one by one, big illuminated rectangles that look like still photos developing in a darkroom.
The jumbo-sized photos are surreal and luminescent. The vivacious, liquid-crystal-display of each picture is like looking into a screen, where life in full, real-time motion is being lived out in each one. There she is, my baby. But she's not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but a beautiful woman. Each motion picture is a different snapshot of her, an interactive portal that I'm somehow able to enter, and become a living part of her existence just by looking at it. Who the hell is this woman?
In the first photo, our eyes lock, and I feel something supernatural inside of me that I've never felt. I take a step to the next pic. Hmm, I want to know more about this woman. Her head is tilted and she's eating crackers with her fingertips in this photo. We lock eyes again, but she shakes her head and looks away as if she's mad at herself for looking at me. Fine, be that way. In this one, her nails have just been done, sparkling and shining, with one nail painted blue. I eavesdrop on her as she writes in her calendar planner book. I wonder what she keeps a record of. I step. She's wearing a jacket. it's cold, but she suddenly becomes hot and takes it off. I stop and enter this photo. It's crazy because I don't even know her, and yet, I'm singing to her as i sway my hips and snap my fingers to the rhythm in my head. She smiles. She likes it. A lot. I leave her, eager for the next photo and encounter.
She's sitting with a female friend. They're talking but appear bored. I think I'll shake things up a bit. This time, instead of singing, I entertain her and her friend with a special, original dance I've been practicing for years. Their eyes widen with surprise and they are captivated by my unique dance moves. They must think I'm crazy. Either that, or extremely talented.
With each step I take, I get to know her a little more through each photo. Most of the photos are self-explanatory, but some of them make no sense. Like in this one, she's standing next to a wooden bookcase. For some strange reason, I remove my shoe, and then she slams both of her angry hands against the bookcase. I step. She licks her finger and turns a page, so I mimic her by licking my finger and turning a page. It becomes a fun game and an agent of communication between us.
In the next photo, she's touching her ear, so I play with my ear. She keeps trying to get me to dance for her and her friends, and though I bust a few sporadic moves just for her, she doesn't realize how sore it makes me afterwards. Since I'm beginning to really like this mystery woman, I feel like it's worth it for her. I don't know what it is, but I can't get her to dance for anything. She's becoming increasingly shy and nervous around me, maybe because she likes me so much. yep, she does.
Here in this photo, she's whispering and exchanging gossip giggles with her friends while she glances in my direction. She's at a shopping mall in the next picture, leaning so sexy against a wall, damn her skin is really glowing in this one. I purposely let my cup slip out of my hand and my drink spills next to her. Our eyes lock and time stops. I tell her how much I love her long, black hair. She tells me how much she loves the contrast of my bald-faded haircut with the two-day stud stubble on my face. In every picture, I want to see more of her and she wants to see more of me.
I keep stepping along the glimmering clothesline with the jumbo motion pictures. Each photo brings another interaction and experience I share with her. We become addicted to looking into each other's eyes and spending time together. But sadly, at some point, I become too much for her and her body can't handle heaven on earth. Because of my intensity and consistency, my intimacy overwhelms her. In a series of photos, I become her drug.
Every day, as soon as I arrived home, removed my shirt, and gave her that look, it got the the point that her legs would begin to move erratically in heated anticipation for what I was about to do to her. She couldn't handle, believe it or not, all the painful, rough sex and multiple orgasms, so we split up. I step. She looks so sad in these photos. I miss her and I know she misses me. There are hundreds of prophetic photos in front of me, maybe even thousands. Damn, when does this line of photos end?
As I'm about to take my next step, a door opens, and a light breeze and a shaft of sunlight shines into my dark dreamworld. The sexy shadow silhouette of a woman stands in the doorway. An irresistible force is pulling me to the door, but i fight it because I want to see the rest of the photos. I need to know what happens. What does the future hold for the mysterious woman in my dreams and me?
The woman is no longer standing in the doorway, but I'm still walking to it against my will. Like over-sized confetti, the hundreds of photos begin blowing in the air and falling to the floor like leaves in an Autumn wind. Without getting a chance to look at it, I snatch one of the photos out of the air, crumble it into a quick ball and shove it into my pocket.
I step cautiously through the door into the blinding light of freedom. My wardrobe changes automatically into some blue jeans, a snug-fitting t-shirt and some Jordans. There she is. Not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but the beautiful woman in all the photos and who I only know in my dreams. She's sitting in the driver's seat of one of my dream cars, BMW Spyder i8, with the passenger door open. "Are you ready?" she says, in the same sweet-toned voice that always sends warm tingles through my body.
"Hell yeah, I'm ready. Damn, you look so beautiful."
"Aww," she pouts her face. "Thank you. Now get in Shawn Ali, let's go."
I rush into the car, wanting to be with her so badly. Our fingers interlock. I slam the door shut with my other hand. We lean passionately into each other, our lips touch. Our wet tongues fight and twist in a hard, intense kiss that never seems to end. Then I kiss her lips several times, and all over her face, "mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk," I turn her head aggressively and kiss and suck on her neck, something I've been wanting to do since I saw that first photo of her and we locked eyes. After I wet and mark her neck real good, I ask her, "where are we going, my Black Widow?"
"Ugh, please stop calling me that," she smiles. "From now on, I want to be your Butterfly."
"Where are we going?" I ask, as I stroke her gorgeous hair.
She flips down her dark sunglasses over her beautiful eyes. "You'll see."
She starts the silent hybrid engine. The radio kicks on, still playing Miguel's Sure Thang ♫ ♪ even when the sun don't shine, I have faith in you and I, put your pretty little hand in mine ♪ ♫. I squeeze her hand and we drive off. On her license plate are ten letters in all capital letters: BLACK WIDOW.
[My eyes flick open. I'm awake and back inside of my tiny cell. "All officers prepare for count. All officers prepare for count," is the intercom announcement I'm hearing as my mind adjusts to reality. Damn, I slept that long, it's already count time. Almost two hours have passed, but it was a good two hours. I felt free and I was with her. My song notebook is still open on my chest. I almost forgot. I was tweaking one of my songs when I drifted off to sleep. I think of the title of my song, Are You Woman Enough For Me? If my mysterious, dream woman even exists, I wonder if she is woman enough for me.]
To be continued
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