FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn, due 2015

“Dilara, do you know what time it is?” My voice raspy from a fitful sleep  sounded like a throat full of pumice stones.

10906106_10153497009507586_6014278123377555685_n“You’re damn right I know, time that my friend and lover, the great Mustafa, paid attention to the woman who loves him.” I held the phone two feet from my ear, my God, that woman had volume.

Dilara was the most seductive woman I had ever met, an Israeli father and Turkish mother. Her complexion was dark with smooth, flawless skin, like extra virgin olive oil in a tinted glass bottle. The tattoo on the inside of her wrist was small, the word Musa in Arabic. Her voice, even when raised in a pique of anger, was deep and raspy, you not only heard the words but felt them. Her lips were full, accentuating high cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and an aquiline nose. Polished black hair shimmered around her face and shoulders in managed confusion. Her eyes were large, almond shaped, deep and dark with thick lashes and heavy brows. Dilara always looked like post-coital love, skin slightly flushed,  a hint of perspiration on her upper lip, bedhead hair. This woman had raw sex appeal, physical, uncomplicated, inviting.

Saying “calm down” to Dilara was throwing gasoline on a fire.

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