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As she turned the last corner, she very nearly knocked Leticia Blakely to the ground, but was able to grab her and help her back upright before she fell over."Sorry, Leticia! Are you alright?" I'm fine, Sammy. Don't worry about it," she replied cordially.Sammy ordinarily wouldn't be so direct, but she was rushed, and she'd thought of little else. So it just popped out, almost without thinking."How was your date with Dave?" asked Sammy."It was great! We had a lot of fun!" Leticia replied enthusiastically."Oh," Sammy replied, trying very hard not to let her feelings show. "I'm, uh, glad. I want Dave to be happy," she said, a fake smile plastered on her face."Well, I made him happy alright," Leticia said with a wink. She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "And he made me pretty damn happy too. Like, wow! But then, you probably already knew about that." Yeah, Dave's really, uh, he's a great guy," Sammy offered, her voice cracking just a little. "But, hey, I gotta run," she. Vivienne returned to the blossom, and to the echoes of sensation still welling within her. Her tongue gently laved her upper lip as she shook her head in perplexity. ‘Moore? You better might say ‘MORE’!’ she sighed to herself. She stepped back into the space of the atrium without turning around, held by the painting and the resonance of the emotion. That dark space within her was echoing with sensation, pulsing open, hungry with agitation, embracing an emptiness urgent for fulfilling satisfaction. Vivienne took a deep breath. Who was this ‘Moore’ who had moved her in this way? Was it just the memories of her maidenly awakening with Kyle still echoing within her just now, or did this painter touch some marvelous knowledge within herself? Perhaps the artist, whoever it was, would be at the gathering tonight, perhaps then she would discover the magic that moved that brush and stirred her in this surprising way. Vivienne’s hand lifted and pulled the combs that held her hair. She shook.
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His skin was a smooth reddish brown, like the skins of certain cherries, and his eyes were a clear ocean blue. His hair was as dark as it possibly could have been, and it was pulled back into a tail, with loose strands framing his face. There was a tiny sapphire stud in his lower lip, which caught her gaze and held it. ‘Are you Kizzi?’ he asked. His voice was rich and deep, like dark chocolate flowing from his throat. Speechless, she nodded. ‘May I step inside?’ he inquired, already stepping inside. Marco was still barking furiously, but the stranger put a hand on his big shaggy head, and the dog instantly quieted. Finding her voice, Kizzi asked, ‘Um, who are you?’ He smiled and laughed, an amazing melodic sound, that made her think of sweet peppers. ‘Who am I?’ he repeated. ‘I am a man of a place forgotten to the world. I am a man of a place who has never known the luxury of satellite television, or microwave ovens, nor have we needed it. I am a man who has traveled a very long.

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