Today, the sun is roasting my skin. Just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow.
I'm in the middle of nowhere, traveling from village to village on the back of a camel. I don't even remember why I'm here. Everyone says travel opens your mind, that it changes you. I thought at 25, it was time to stop drifting and figure out what I'm meant to do.
What a joke.
After wandering across continents, I've only confirmed what I already knew: people are the same everywhere. And now, here I am, moving from one forsaken place to another, drowning in heat and sand.
For what exactly? Some grand revelation? A spiritual awakening? Or just a slow, sunburned death?
As my thoughts drift, a cluster of mud huts appears on the horizon. Calling it a "village" would be generous. A handful of people sit motionless in the shade, preserving their energy in the suffocating heat. An old man watches me approach, his expression unreadable. I dismount the camel and attempt to speak, mixing English with the few words of Arabic I know. But he says nothing, just stares, unmoving.
Maybe he's dead and just hasn't fallen over yet.
Before I can decide whether to keep trying, a voice--smooth, clear, and completely unaccented--calls from behind me.
"Hello, boy."
I turn to see a woman standing unnervingly close. I hadn't even heard her approach.
She's in her early forties, maybe older, but there's something timeless about her. She wears a simple, flowing black dress, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the body beneath. The soft drape of the fabric accentuates her curves in ways that seem almost deliberate. A delicate veil dances against her fit midsection, a teasing whisper of fabric over skin, leaving little to the imagination. It covers her entirely except for head, neck and her shoulders, which are bare and sun-kissed. A single golden pendant hangs around her neck, disappearing beneath the fabric. She has no shoes.
Her eyes--pale green, almost glowing--study me with something between amusement and curiosity.
"Do you need help? What are you doing here?"
Her voice is hypnotic, her English smoother than mine. I struggle to answer.
"I... I don't know. Searching for something, I guess."
She tilts her head slightly, a slow smile forming.
"Ah, yes... A young man who comes here is always searching for something."
She takes a step closer, close enough that I catch the scent of something sweet and fresh--so out of place in this land of dust and sweat. As she moves closer, a delicate pressure meets my torso--soft, warm, undeniable. The realization comes swiftly; it's her body pressing against mine, separated only by the thin fabric of my shirt. The heat in the air thickens, no longer just from the sun.
Behind me, the old man finally moves, shuffling toward her. His eyes are dull, almost lifeless, as if he's merely a shell of himself. She acknowledges him with nothing more than a glance before turning her attention back to me.
"Are you thirsty?" she asks, her voice softer now, almost teasing. But before I can answer, her tone shifts--suddenly firm, commanding.
"George, be a good boy and fetch some water from the well."
The warmth from before vanishes, replaced by something cold and authoritative. The old man stirs, mutters his acknowledgment, and shuffles away without hesitation.
She directs her attention fully to me now.
