In the 95th millennia of recorded time, the Nirvanian branch of the galaxy was developed. To expand the boundaries of their civilization, they sent explorers to discover routes to nearby galactic arms. Most of them never returned. This is the story of Gimish, who came to Earth in the days of the Pharaohs.
The water rippled, and she rose up, tall, taut and naked. She paused a moment, flinging the water from her head, the starlight dancing over her wet hair. The chartreuse lights of the distant city glimmered on her cheek, across her rounded shoulder and the notch of her hip, then down over her rounded buttocks and the firm muscles of her thigh. With three quick steps, her long legs skipped through the water to the sand.
She grasped the towel from the lounge and, pressing it to her face, walked by instinct up the path. When she lowered it, I was blocking her way.
“You!” she hissed, her face knotted in fury. “I’ve had enough grief from you!”
Although my insides burned, I smiled and caught her elbow, drawing her to me. The wadded towel hit me with the force of her fists as she brushed past and scurried up the trail.
My hands held the cloth to my face, letting the wetness from her body flow into my nostrils and moisten my cheeks.
I brought it down against my lips, my neck, and then my chest. I held it there, letting the water soak into my shirt.
“You bastard!” she shouted.
She was on the veranda, surrounded by an aura of light like a goddess emerging from a star.
“Gimish, why do it? Did you even think about us?” she shouted into the darkness.
The door slammed. She was gone. My ears perked; I held my breath and listened for the lock. One, two, three…ten seconds—still no click.
I threw the towel over my shoulders. Like a defeated boxer staggering to his corner, I climbed the stairs and went inside.
I recalled that night, staring at a page, mostly blank and intentionally so. The scant words prompted me to relive it, for the memory was intended to bring me to safety, to be my life raft, and though urgent voices called me, I lingered and remembered her standing by the bedroom doorway.
She waited, leg bent, flexing her rounded ass and curling her toes downward as she cast her chin back over her shoulder, and her lioness eyes coaxed me on.
I embraced her from behind, wrapped my arms around her. Hands caressing her breasts, I nuzzled my mouth on her neck, stimulated it with a soft brush of my lips.
She reached back, wove her fingers into my hair and tugged me to her bed. She pulled my head close, her hot breath heavy and rapid in my ear as I lifted her, our stomachs kissing, her heat flowing into my groin, filling me with ecstasy.
Afterward she stroked my chest, long and slow, with the edges of her fingernails.
Her first words came deadpan, droning like an actuary, “Why fly into the void? No one—not one—has returned.”
Her voice gained strength as if the power of the universe flowed through her. She pulled my head to hers and pushed her lips against mine so that they vibrated together with every syllable she spoke.
“Probability, the Tyrant of Fate, has declared you will fail,” she said, “but I stand against him, and I fight him. I’ll fight him with the smell of my hair. I’ll fight him with the taste of my lips, with my fingers digging into your back, and I’ll fight him with my moan and the fire that I’ve sent through you.
“Gimish, when he pounds at your door, you remember this night and how sweet it was.” She took my hand and traced it over her thigh and, in a voice husky with determination, said, “You remember, and you fight him. You beat him, and you return home.”