Words failed him.

He maintained his cool while he stood in the cramped efficiency of his supervisor’s office, and in his supervisor’s supervisor’s office as well. He even kept it together while cleaning out his desk, as his coworkers stopped in one by one to say good-bye. His cubicle neighbor Neil came over and gave him a three-slaps-on-the-back man-hug and promised they’d catch a baseball game soon. Hot Jackie from accounting came by and gave him a long tight hug, behaving a little more flirtatiously than usual, though he didn’t know if the reason was pity or desire. A few invitations were extended to go out and get drunk, let’s catch a ballgame, let’s stay in touch, hang in there, yada yada yada, and suddenly he was blinking in the harsh early afternoon sun with a cardboard box full of office supplies in his arms. Just like fired people do on TV shows. Nothing to do, nowhere to go but back to his apartment.

He was tempted to go to a bar, have a few I-just-lost-my-job shots of bourbon, a couple beer backs, try to get laid, but bars are such sad places in early afternoon. Sun streaming through the windows, painting the air in shadows and beams of bright light. Old men drinking beer and watching soap operas. Middle-aged functioning-alcoholic businessmen sneaking out for a quick belt before going back to the office.

He couldn’t go back home. He’d just lie on the couch and watch TV, probably end up getting bored and jerking off to relieve the tension and ennui, and how fucking sad is that? To be alone, jerking off on a couch in the middle of the afternoon after just having lost your job?

Fuck that.

He decided to go see a movie. It didn’t matter which one. He wanted a place where it was dark and anonymous and familiar. Where he could hide for an hour and a half, forget himself in the comfort of a fiction before walking out into the leaning shadows of dusk at the end of a long stupid day and try to figure out what he was going to do next with his life.

He hadn’t even known the name of the movie. Hector’s Search for Happiness, something like that. The title of the movie didn’t much matter. He was alone, it was mid-afternoon, he had just lost his job.

She stood in front of him in the line for the concession stand. The line was long, and moved slowly. As he waited and grew bored he took in more and more of her. She seemed cute, from behind. That curve of ass hidden behind a temptingly short skirt. The lively flare of her hips, the tight bend of her waist. The most alluring detail was her large mass of brown hair, curly and wild, disheveled and inexplicably charismatic, as if the wildness of her hair mirrored something equally wild within her, something unknown and unnamed.

She wore glasses. He loved girls in glasses.

He kept trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Occasionally she would turn her head to look at some random noise, some peripheral movement, and he strained at her profile to get a sense of her eyes. All he saw was the glare of light in the lenses of her glasses, hiding them. He caught a glimpse of her lips, a hint of her cheek, the tender slope of her neck.

She looked cute. She might be cute. He took a chance.

“No popcorn?” he asked.

She turned to look at him. “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear you.”

The word cute was wholly inadequate. Almond eyes shone back at his own, deep seawater green eyes unmuted by her large black glasses. Their exact color did not remain constant but continually shifted, as if each passing thought brought some subtle new tint to it. Her lips were full, red, slightly open; he suddenly wanted to kiss her.

“You don’t buy popcorn?”

“No. Not today.” He heard her accent then. That trill in the “d.” What was it? Latino? Spanish? Mexican? He didn’t know much about languages.

“Why do you ask me?” She regarded him coolly.

He figured he had to get the next few words just right. Take a chance. He said, “You know. If you’re on a date. You buy a bag and share it with the person you are with.”

“Popcorn is romantic?” This time it was the lilt of the “r” as she said “romantic.” Something deep within him stirred.

He said, “No. Sharing a box of popcorn is romantic. It’s the sharing that does it. Don’t you think? Like, you know, passing the box back and forth. Or setting it between your chairs. Accidently touching hands as you reach down into the box.”

She said, “Yes,” in that same lovely inflection. He felt a thrill. She was listening. He had a shot.

“Plus it tells you a lot about a person. How they eat it. Are they the kind of person who eats it delicately, a kernel or two at a time, savoring the taste? Or the kind of person who takes big handfuls of it, just chowing down, you know, wanting everything right now.”

“And which kind are you?” she asked, her eyes changing color again as she shifted her gaze.

“I like both kinds,” he said, and her face lit up. “Sometimes I taste everything slowly, enjoying all the little details. But sometimes I want it all right now, I’m just so hungry for it.” He wondered if he was being ham-handed in his innuendo.

“Yes,” she trilled.

God, he loved her accent. Like a voice from a dream. The “y” sounding more like an “h,” a sexy sigh coming from farther back in her throat like wind rustling in trees, the slightly elongated “e” in the center of the word that she seemed to caress with her tongue as she said it, the “s” a gentle serpentine wonder, a hiss that she held onto just a millisecond longer than she needed to. He realized what it was about an accent that was so sexy. It took familiar words and gave them new meanings.

“Me as well,” she said. She met his gaze candidly and unafraid. She smiled. “Accidently touching hands while you are both grabbing for more sounds nice as well.”

“It’s romantic.”

“Yes,” she said again, her mouth savoring the end of the word, drawing it out. He loved to hear her say yes. He hoped to hear her say it again. Many times.

She continued, “That is a nice moment, the touching of the hands. Unfortunately I do not have a date for tonight. I am here by myself.” A brief glance down. She was taking a chance now, as he was.

“I’m available,” he said.

“Available for what?” she asked. An awkward silence opened between them, a silence that mercifully bloomed into laughter.

He stepped up to the counter and ordered popcorn, no butter.

“I hate that butter stuff,” he said to her.

She grew excited. “I know! It’s not even butter! Look at the dispenser. ‘Golden Flavored.’ They aren’t even allowed to call it butter. Golden flavor. What does that even mean?” As she talked her eyes sought him out, as he sought hers. The melodic hum of the “r” and the “l.” It made him dizzy.

“It’s not butter,” he said. “It’s oil. Butter flavored oil. It’s disgusting. And it gets all over your hands. They get all greasy.”

“It is gross,” she agreed. “That thing you were talking about? The accidental touching of the hands? It would be so awful if the hand you touched had oil all over it. It would ruin the experience.”

Her voice exhilarated him. He wanted her. The thrill of something foreign appearing in a place where all else was predictable. The recklessness of language. The pull of the unknown.

He bowed slightly. “Will you allow me to be your date tonight?”

She smiled a secret smile and said, “Yes.” It was the third time she had said it, maybe the fourth; he was having a difficult time keeping track. He was obsessed with the word, the way she spoke it. Yes. Yes. Yes. So fucking sexy. He was tempted to ask her name but then realized he’d rather not even know it. No names.

They walked into the theater together, took their seats toward the center, where most of the other people were sitting. A few couples were farther out on the fringes of the crowd, on the sides, at the back.

The lights dimmed. Before the first preview was over they had touched hands in the popcorn, as he knew they would. She took her fingertip and traced a line up his fingers, across his hand. She made direct eye contact with him, and he returned the gaze. His cock began to tingle.

Take a chance, he told himself. You will regret it if you don’t.

He put his hand lightly on the bare skin of her knee. He tried to think of something to say but words again failed him. He searched her face for a clue as to what would happen next. She closed her eyes. She smiled.

“That’s feels nice,” she whispered, the whisper combining with her accent so sexily it seduced his cock into hardening. She settled slightly back into the padded cushion of her chair.

“It is good you did not choose the greasy golden flavor,” she said, eyes still closed. She giggled.

It was his turn to say, “Yes.”

“The grease would not make it feel so nice.”

“It would be gross?” he asked, mirroring her earlier words.

“Yes.” She put her hand on top of his. She leaned in close to his ear.

“What I never understood,” she purred, “is why guys think they need to make, how do you call it, small talk. Make up polite things to say. Take a girl out for dinner or drinks. When what you want to do is not make small talk, not have dinner. You want to fuck her, you say so. You should say, ‘I want to fuck you.’”

The word “fuck,” was transformed by her voice into something large and insistent and unnamable.

She said, “If I want sex, I ask for sex.”

He moved his hand slightly higher up the bare skin of her knee, stopping at the hem of her short skirt, thrilled at the prospect of crossing another border.

“That feels very nice,” she said. The accent, the whisper. He shivered.

He felt her hand at his knee, slowly moving up his leg toward his still hardening cock. He took note that there were people within two or three seats of them on either side. A high school aged couple behind them. A family in front of them.

He gave her a lopsided smile and said, “Maybe we should move to the back of the theater.”

He stood, took her hand to help her out of her seat, led her quietly to the back. The only other people in the row were another couple on the far side of the aisle, regarding them furtively. Some woman in a red dress, some guy in a suit.

They settled into their chairs. The previews over, the movie house lights dimmed further, the show began.

He again placed his hand on her knee. She slouched back into her chair, reading herself for what might happen next. He leaned into her ear and whispered, “Spread your legs.” She let out a nearly inaudible birdlike cry, closed her eyes, leaned her head back, exposing the glorious white curve of her neck.

He whispered, “Slide your skirt up for me.”

Again, the barely audible cry. She spread her hands out and with delicious slowness hooked them under the hem of her skirt, pulled the thin material back to reveal several more inches of her skin. It was as white and perfect as her neck.

His eyes stayed on the screen as his hand left her knee and moved slowly up her leg. Her leg shivered slightly. He stopped at the edge of her panties and relished the moment, on the dreamy boundary of something wild and new.

She opened her eyes a fraction, giving him a sultry sleepy stare, and as she leaned in toward his ear his cock jumped in anticipation. The whisper. The accent.

“Remember about the popcorn?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I want you to savor everything,” she said.

“I will taste it all.”

She leaned closer still and licked the inside of his ear. “I’m getting wet,” she said, the “w” sounding more like an “h,” the final percussive “t” in the last word resonating in his ear, every nerve in his body suddenly alight. Yes. Wet. What lovely words.

He slid his finger along the outside hem of her panties. He felt the muscles of her leg tighten, heard a sharp intake of breath. He moved his finger mere inches to the dampness in the thin cloth, just over her moistening slit. He began to glide the tip of his finger up her pussy lips, then reversing direction to slip back down. She spread her legs wider, clearly wanting more. He began to tease her in earnest now, running two fingertips up and down, up and down, between her pussy lips, coaxing them open like the petals of a flower. Her panties grew wetter.

He pushed the material of her panties slightly into her pussy, perhaps an inch. She gasped. As he looked to her still closed eyes and reddening cheeks he saw the couple on the other side of the aisle watching them. He made no attempt to read their faces, no attempt to discern if they were aroused or disapproving. He didn’t care. He was pretty sure she didn’t care.

He continued to run his fingers along her fold, pressing harder now, the cloth teasing the entrance of her pussy. He imagined how the weave would feel to her as it pressed against her mound. He pressed a bit deeper, pushing her panties farther inside her. She bit her lip. She trembled. She arched her back and offered her neck and sighed, “Please,” stretching the word out, the “e” held particularly long, that last buzzing “z” sound reverberating on her tongue in a way that thrilled him to the core.

He took his fingers from her lips and slid them inside the hem of her wet panties, then pulled them to the side to expose her soaking pussy. He took just one finger and slowly traced the valley between her lips. She jerked her hips up quickly, wanting his fingers inside her, but he didn’t allow her the satisfaction, just continued to slide his finger just inside her fold. She was very wet by now and as he teased her she coated his fingers with her juices. She continued to thrust toward him, he continued to pull his fingers back, denying her.

He looked past her to the couple on the far side of the aisle. The woman in red was on her knees before the guy in the suit, rubbing his cock through his pants. Their eyes however, were both locked onto her hips thrusting beneath his fingers.

She turned to him and mouthed more than whispered, “Please, fuck me with your fingers please,” and the effect on him was electric, a feeling deep within him that defied all boundaries. The music of her voice and the cadence of her words reached someplace inside him he could not name, and as she spread her legs to allow even more of herself to him he slid his fingers inside her at an excruciatingly deliberate pace. Slightly in, slightly out, a little further in, a little further out, exploring deeper and deeper inside her.

He slid in his two fingers as far as they could go, deeply, deeply, and began to draw circles around the walls of her pussy. She let out a low rumbling moan, pushing hers hips hard against his fingers, and he returned the thrust with his fingers, stroking the soft warm interior of her pussy with his fingertips. She cupped her breasts in her hands through the material of her dress and began to massage them.

When he placed his thumb on her clit she started whimpering, back arched, mouth open, breath ragged. He began to rub it, slowly pressing down on it, in a circular motion echoing the circles he was drawing inside her with the tips of his fingers.

“Just like that, cariño,” she sighed, her voice an urgent whisper. “Just like that.”

Her body began to tremble.

He looked across the aisle to see the woman in red on her knees, holding the cock of the man in the suit, her hand at the base of his cock, her lips closing around the head, her tongue snaking out to taste the sensitive underside. It was like something from a dream.

His own cock was throbbing, begging for release.

She convulsed, her hands pinching her nipples, her pussy tightly gripping his fingers, and he thrust his fingers deeply inside her as she closed her legs suddenly together, gasping, “Me voy a correr, vas a hacer que me corra.” He had no idea what it meant, but it was the sexiest thing he had ever heard in his life.

She lay back against her chair, spent, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling with the effort of it. Beyond her, the businessman was thrusting his cock deep into the throat of the woman in red.

He could wait no longer. His cock was bursting, ready, peeking out from over the edge of his belt, the head wet with precum.

He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of her chair and into his arms in a move so graceful he felt as if he were dancing with her. Her hand in his, he guided her out of the theater and led her across the lobby as she laughed and giggled, her laughter music to him, like the light, playful ringing of bells. He looked to the bathrooms, the videogame room, the giant cardboard movie posters that tragically did not contain enough hidden space for a quick, hot fuck in the middle of a lobby. The afternoon crowd was sparse, but people were spread out everywhere.

He pulled her out the door and into the bright dazzle of sunlight, the asphalt hot at their feet, lending a shimmer to the air above it. Her laughter trailed behind her like the tail of a kite.

They scurried around the corner of the building into the parking spaces closest to the wall, in the shadow of the building, and he saw no one and could wait no longer and threw her against the hood of a generic grey minivan to bend her over and fuck her.

The car alarm began to blare the instant her hands hit the metal of the hood. She jumped into his arms in shocked response as he stumbled backward, adrenaline pumping, and again her ringing laughter spiraled into the air.

He spied an alcove behind the dumpster and pulled her into it. Just as he was about to fling her against the wall she stopped, turned and pulled him around and against the wall. A complete reversal, the whole world now rendered unfamiliar. He was reminded again of dancing, the perfection and grace of it all.

She pushed him against the wall and fell into his arms, kissing him furiously, her arms thrown around his neck, his lips and tongue muffling the words that came tumbling out of her mouth as if she were speaking in tongues, crying, “Fóllame, necesito sentirte dentro de mí.” The car alarm continued to scream, filling the air with a shrill chaos of sound that echoed between the wall of the alcove and the dumpster.

He pulled his cock roughly out of his pants as she scissored her legs around his waist. She pushed off of his chest to raise herself, then impaled herself down onto his hard slick cock with a feral moan that was only partially masked by the clamor of the car alarm. His entire length eased effortlessly into her.

She anchored her hands around his neck and began to plunge down hard on his cock, fast and rough, taking his cock hard and deep as he leaned against the wall and pushed into her, meeting her thrusts with his own.

She moaned, “Fuck me, fuck me harder.”

His heart pounded, his cock throbbed. He pleaded, ”Say it in Spanish.”

She laughed loudly and threw her head back and sang, “Más fuerte, fóllame más fuerte.” The sound of her voice transported him, these foreign words, this unfamiliar tongue, meanings hidden behind a scrim of an unknown language.

He pushed her away and spun her around, dancing, ever dancing, slamming her against the wall and grabbing her ass and plunging his cock all the way inside her yet again, grinding into her, deeply, ferociously, before taking up his rhythm where he had left off, fucking her hard, pounding her against the wall.

She met every thrust with equal abandon, crying “¡Fuerte, más fuerte!” and her words and her accent and the tight wet grip of her pussy and the car alarm blaring and the feverish notion that they could be caught at any second pulled together into one numinous moment; his balls contracted, his cock pulsed, he buried himself deep inside and began to fuck her in short fast strokes, feeling his cum building as she sobbed, “Córrete para mí, cariño, córrete para mi .” The words struck him like lightning, afire with need, and the resultant thunder came as a torrent inside her, cumming hard, spasm after spasm, one, two, three, four, five pumps, his legs and stomach and cock clenching.

They collapsed against the building, his cock still inside her, her arms still around him. The car alarm abruptly shut off, followed by two electronic beeps. Footsteps sounded from around the corner, and they quickly disengaged, frantically pulling their clothes into place.

Three figures turned the corner, walking casually toward them. They quickly ducked down, their backs to the wall, and slid to a sitting position, next to each other. A harried Dad and his two wriggling daughters approached the minivan they had just attempted to fuck on, entered the car, closed the door, and slowly pulled out as the sound of generic pop music spilled muted and tinny from the windows of the van.

They sat next to each other without speaking in the shadowed alcove, no sound but for their labored breathing and the hot roar of blood running through their veins. The familiar world of parking lots, streetlights and strip malls, lost jobs and old girlfriends and bars, all lay beyond him, in the hot shimmer of the asphalt. Trivial. Next to him he felt the heat of her skin through their clothes, the heat of a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

“That was amazing,” he said. What a wildly inadequate word, he thought.

“Yes.”

“Just awesome.” He felt powerless to tell her how he felt. He needed a new language.

“Yes.”

He started to say something else, and she put a finger to his lips to silence him.

“Yesss,” she said, one last time. So much power in that one word. The last sibilant hiss of the “s” trailed off in the wind, lost in an asphalt sea of car engines and slamming doors.

He stood, hand outstretched, and helped her up from the concrete. “I think it is best if I do not know your name,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “But I enjoyed meeting you.”

He laughed. She returned the laugh.

“No, not enjoy,” she said. “That is not the word. Not strong enough. I cannot find the word I mean.”

“I know,” he said.

“I do not know the word,” she said.

“I can’t name it either.”

“Maybe there is not a word?” she asked.

“Maybe not,” he replied, the phrase a placeholder for larger meanings left unsaid, perhaps untranslatable in any language. They held hands and walked out into the sunlight, the everyday world a different place to him now, alive with the common mysteries of life and love, blood and need. When they reached the entrance of the theater he turned to her to say goodbye, squeezing her hand, accepting her gaze, glimpsing figures from his dreams swimming in the seawater green depth of her eyes.