Excerpt from The Book

Alya enjoyed traveling. She wasn't very good at it, though. She got lost easily, and overwhelmed in crowds. Alya means Heavens. Her mother had named her as a sort of intense religious promise. Her brother had teased that she was named so because her head was always in the clouds. Alya's last boyfriend had told her she brought Heaven to Earth.

Because traveling was difficult for her—practically, and financially as well—Alya often chose the safer option: books. From a young age, she learned to read and she loved it. No book was boring to her, as she could be transported immediately from one world to the next. She learned to read quickly, too; and could easily finish at least one book each day.

Lately, things had been a little more hectic. Her husband was stressed because of work, the children were always demanding, and finances were tight. Because of this, Alya was safely, quietly, and reluctantly rooted at home. Of the hundreds of books in Alya's home, most remained unread. But, while browsing aimlessly through online listings, Alya had come upon a book.

On the cover there was a man, shirtless, and a woman, hair red as fire, head held back as though she may howl at the moon. Alya's heart started racing.

Maybe she wouldn't even read it. She couldn't leave it alone, though. She didn't even remember what it was called, and when she went back to check, forgot to read the fancy words scrawled above the half naked depictions. Alya glanced beside her at her husband, slightly reclined, eyes closing, half-listening to the TV after a long day of work.

Alya needed an adventure. She made the arrangements.

* * * *

The next day was Friday. After work, Alya collected exactly three dollars from a jar in the kitchen. She walked across the street to a bus stop, carefully placing the coins in the machine. The driver gave her a transfer. Alya avoided his gaze—she felt a little scandalous, going to pick up a "dirty" book from a stranger's house. Thankfully, it was getting dark soon, and the previous owner had agreed to leave the title on her porch in a plastic bag.

She'd decided to bring a short novel to finish on her way—the trip would take nearly three hours, and Alya had been reading the off-beat sensual mystery for months. Quickly she turned the pages, intrigued and thrilled at the possibilities. She liked that this story was unpredictable.

* * * *

The bus arrived at the station. Alya thanked the driver, hopping down from the bus and up the steps to the warm building.

In the window she saw a black man, unnervingly sexy, an hourglass silhouetted perfectly against the stark brightness of the bus terminal. She swung open the door to her left, his right; book in one hand and cell phone in the other.

As if sensing her attention, the man smiled almost imperceptibly. He nodded his head, and she in turn, lowered hers, embarrassed at her own transparency, and unsure how a smile might be interpreted.

As Alya walked past, the man's gaze followed but only for a moment. He resumed looking out the window; she continued reading.

The wait was short—Alya soon saw the bright number seven in its place. She pulled out her transfer, gripping it tightly, in case of a sudden gust of wind.

As she stepped onto the second bus at the terminal, Alya lifted the transfer to show to the driver. His eyes were clear and kind, reminding her of her husband. A pang of guilt, perhaps, washed over her. She hadn't been honest about the reason for her bus ride.

The kind eyes narrowed to make out the numbers and letters punched out by the first driver, to be sure she wasn't scamming him for a free ride. "Ten o'clock at night," his gravelly voice startled her out of her reverie. It was eight forty one. "I'll give you a new one," but her legs were beginning to walk, her eyes scanning for a seat. It was perhaps two full seconds before she registered the meaning of his words, and by then he was speaking again, curious; "do you want a new transfer?"

"Oh," she stopped walking, took two steps backward, gazing out the front window of the bus. "Yes, please." He handed her the new transfer. "Sorry," automatic—more genuinely, "thank you." And a smile. She had a beautiful smile when she was able to express it at the right time. Captivating, even.

She fumbled to open the front pocket of her bag as she walked. She held the new transfer in her right hand, between her forefinger and middle, like a cigarette. She hated cigarettes, but loved the romanticism of holding one between her fingers; flicking it; slowly bringing it to her lips, newly moist from her tongue; inhaling deeply, the sensation of warmth filling her chest and breasts, not unlike the way she felt drinking warm coffee.

Finally, left foot up a step, left hand gripping the handle, right hand finding a safe space for the transfer, careful not to confuse it with the one she'd been using as a bookmark; she took her seat.

* * * *

The rest of the bus ride was a blur, as Alya finished her book—a completely unexpected tragic end—and pondered what the French writer might have been like, if she could have met him.

Alya's stop was called out, but she didn't pull the bell in time. As she neared the front of the bus, asking the driver to stop, she tripped a little on her own feet—not uncommon, for her. Oh dear, and this was why she preferred to stay home. The social anxiety took over, and Alya mumbled that it was okay, she'd get off at the next stop. She did, and realized she had quite a few minutes to walk.

* * * *

The night was warm, but a little breezy. Alya pulled her light sweater around her shoulders; not quite enough to keep her warm.

She neared the final corner, the homes getting more grandiose every few moments. She felt eyes on her that were not really there; a manifestation of her own criticism. This was a neighbourhood in which she did not belong; where meals, shiny cars, and security was never uncertain.

Finding a house number, Alya realized her destination was across the quiet street. Crossing, she became very aware of the moist fragrance between her knees. Her awareness only served to amplify her anticipation, and she felt a slow drip down her thigh all the way to her knee. Alya passed the four cars in the driveway, eventually grabbing the plastic bag without glancing inside. Deliberately she stepped down the driveway, wasting no time to get her bearings. The bus ride home would be long, seeming even longer on account of her overflowing sexual energy.

* * * *

On the way back down the road, nearing the same corner, something caught her eye; a light went off, then on again. A woman in a short slip was surprised as a man stood in the doorway, watching her take pillows off of her bed. He seemed mischievous. Alya realized she had stopped walking, and took a step closer to blend into the dark fence.

The woman turned her head, her breasts shaking with laughter as she picked up yet another pillow. She threw it at the man, who quickly tossed it back. Then, in three quick steps, he was across the room and on top of the woman, sucking and nipping at her nipples and neck as he removed his belt. He folded it in half and spanked her thighs with it. She moaned—Alya couldn't hear but she could see it, feel it. The woman grabbed at the man, pulling him toward her, wanting—no, needing—him inside of her. He resisted, teasing her, exercising his power as she writhed in anticipation.

Alya's breath had quickened and she was wet through her panties. She pushed them aside, middle finger finding its way to her clitoris, pushing desperately into her pussy as she watched the scene unfold.

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