Tauer, No. 2 L’Air Du Desert Marocain
It’s not even noon and the sun is already blazing, igniting everything. Even the walls relent and shade doesn’t stand a chance. A barely breeze ruffles the corners of her silk scarf, tacked half-heartedly (if hopefully) in the window. There’s no combatting this kind of heat. Surrender and stillness are their only arsenal. She reaches a hand to brush his brow. So languid is her movement that hardly a ripple upsets the pool of perspiration that has collected in the v-shaped space where her collar bone meets her shoulder. He licks his lips and kisses her fingertips. For an instant they shudder.