A flash of remembrance of a passionate night

In the early hours of the morning, I fiddled with my BlackBerry. Feeling edgy, restless. Seems my thoughts rushed between dark voids of memories, with little will-power to guide me through these sleepless moments.

I will share my story, a brief random one, mind you.

Once a upon a time…

I bolted up from my chair repeatedly. Nights hazed, and days were physically-taxing and long. For a moment I thought I was back at the old house in Malaysia, subjected to some amusing conversation with my siblings, but my thoughts cleared and my vision tumbled back into reality. Bosnia. I was working, transporting aid, boxes and crates, to a refugee camp.

Aside from the constant brusque awakening and the sweet rare tranquillity of my breaks, my instincts fed somewhat impatient vibes. Yes, things had changed, my self-esteem was shifting radically; wasn’t so keen to be in the killing fields and not do anything. Impatience. Hot blood flowing in my veins.

As days passed, in the increasing warm weather, I mired myself in silence, packing the supplies of medicine and tents. Like a robot, a useless damaged robot. In the deafening silence of my mind. I had avoided all casual talks with my colleagues, pleasantries pushed aside, and thus people generally ignored me. Which was fine with me.

The unusual signs, the gloominess of spirit, was so intense that I was relieved, finally, to see and be distracted by an attractive woman driving into the camp.

Actually she was about my age, dressed in a simple light hazel blouse, jeans and dark safety boots. She had black hair, tan skin, but even from where I stood, I could tell that her eyes were dark, her lips ~ gorgeous and red. We smiled, we spoke, candidly about the challenges we had faced in dire times, sharing stories, about humanitarian relief work, and I remember her saying that I appeared disturbingly untroubled, almost serene, with the exception of my mischievous smile.

We parted hours later, the meal was bland and cold, but her scent in my nostrils, the taste of her lips on mine. I don’t remember how long she had stayed in Bosnia or which agency she was attached to, but I remember her slender neck, sweat rolling down, our conversations, the playful twist of her lips when she suppressed a laughter. I remember the hugs.

A remarkable woman, and an immensely satisfying night.

Zashnain

An avid blogger, twitterer and photojournalist, Zashnain Zainal suffers from an incurable addiction to social work, helping marginalised communities since 1989. Nowadays he travels from the plantations of Malaysia to the slums of Thailand. He can be found at zashnain.com and @bedlamfury

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