The Restaurant: Sam and His Dinner 

"You don't mind my slow, do you?" she asked in a hoarse whisper in my ear.

"No," I said, "take your time."

"I cannot get pregnant, OK?"

"Ok. I saw us on a beach together." I said dumbly, drunkenly, dreamily.

"Yes?" Her hips began to roll a bit more, picking up speed.

"Yes. We were on a beach. The sand was white and soft. It was night."

"Oh god that sounds, wonderful." I felt her pause at the bottom and roll her hips, her public hair tickling me as she ground her hips against mine.

"We had been picking grapes together." A roll up from her hips. "Then we were at the beach in front of the fire."

"Oh yes." Her breath caught, and her hips began to speed up. She bit her lip. "Tell me more."

"We were in front of a fire." I felt my orgasm rising from very far away. My body began to tremble, holding it back." We were making love."

"Yes!" She cried out. Her hips moved faster and faster, whipping back and forth atop me. I held onto her hips, her back, trying desperately to hold onto the wave, the image of us making rushed, hurried love. We pounded unbridled against one another.

And then a moan erupted from deep inside of her, and she let out a great big "Ohh!!!" that filled and echoed in our little concrete room.

Her body spasmed and contorted as her release erupted from her, from me. My body became rigid and quaked underneath her convulsions, lifting her slightly and causing her to cry out again.

Another gasp, and we collapsed together, our ragged exhausted breathing heating the other's skin. Our arms twisted around and barely holding each other.

We lay there. She atop me. Together. Inseparable. The restaurant sounds whispering far in the background.

I never imagined I could feel so happy, so complete as I did then. I never wanted to leave this room or spend a moment away from Diana. I smelled her hair filling my nostrils, hoping that it would burn into my mind so that I could conjure it into my senses wherever I was.

A call from outside in the hallway wall broke our bliss.

"Diana? Misha finally said he can't come."

Her head barely lifted from my shoulder.

"Not at all?" she yelled back.

"No. He's sick. He sounds bad."

"Oh good lord," she said, lifting herself from me. The warmth of her body against mine ebbing.

"Do you need a hand?"

"Can you lift a crate? There'll be a lot of them, not just these, but more coming tonight in the street. They need to be delivered to all the restaurants on the street."

"Would I know where to put them?" Ironically, my experience with the backroom people turning on in my mind. Distribution of inventory.

"I can show you, but each restaurant is labeled." she pointed to the tag.

"Got it, yes. Well, I do owe you for the wine."

"For that, you will need to stay for a few more nights," she said.

"I'd like that very much." it caught in my chest for a moment, but then the old beige life left me in a single, liberated breath.

The night continued to be one of the best in my life as I took box after box up and down the street to each of the restaurants. I marveled as they commented on the quality and the freshness of what the farms brought them. I met diva chefs and entire families who provided love through the food they served at restaurants for generations. I watched as couples and groups came to their locations hungry and tired and left smiling, happy, and bright. I was part of it all, feeding the kitchens with supplies, help, getting hopelessly filthy and exhausted but relishing in the warmth and love I received in return.

Early that morning, as the restaurants' tables were cleared, floors were swept, and kitchens cooled, Diana and I made love again in her tiny apartment. And again in the afternoon when we woke to prepare to her restaurant for the lunch rush the next day.