Fated

unscrews the cap, and takes a few swallows before he tucks the bottle back into his pocket and pulls me into a dark abandoned alleyway.
    I stumble. Squint. Grasp at the wall as I fight to find my way. Steadied by the warmth of his hands at my waist, and the reassuring phrase that flits through my head—the one Jennika used to wean me from my night-light back when I was a kid:
    You gotta adjust to the dark so the light can find you .
    He pushes the scarf from my head, leaving it to fall around my neck, as his face veers so close all I can really make out are deep blue eyes, and the most perfectly parting lips that are quick to claim mine.
    I merge into the kiss, tasting the lingering traces of vodka still coating his tongue, as my hands explore the muscled expanse of his chest, the taut curve of his shoulders, the clean edge of his jaw. My fingers twisting into his silky mane of hair, as his slip under my jacket—under my tank top—seeking, discovering—bunching the fabric higher and higher as he works his way up.
    Our bodies melding, conforming into a tangle of grinding hips—a crush of lips. The kiss becoming so heated, so urgent, my breath grows ragged, too fast, as my body ignites like a freshly struck match.
    So delirious with the feel of him—the warmth of him—the promise of him—I surrender to the nudge of his fingers working inside my bra—circling, pulling, as my own fingers move south. Wandering over a well-defined abdomen, then lower still, down to his waistband. Ready to venture to places I’ve yet to explore, when he breaks away, his voice no more than a whisper when he says, “C’mon, I know a place.” The words thick, eyes bleary, as we fight to catch our breath, fight to keep from pressing forward and claiming the kiss once again. “Seriously. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before—it’s gonna be epic—follow me!” He finds my hand, pulls me out of the dark and back into the bright, lively square.
    At first I go willingly, prepared to follow him anywhere. Though it’s not long before I’m seduced by the sound of that incessant pulsing rhythm—the trance-inducing lure of the gnaoua drum.
    “Daire—c’mon, it’s this way. What gives?” He frowns, brows slanted in confusion when I drop his hand and keep going, not bothering to check if he follows—no longer caring about anything other than locating the source of that beat.
    I squeeze through the tightly packed crowd until I’m standing before it—my head filled with the hypnotic rhythm of that red leather drum, my eyes swimming with the flash of crimson silk, gold coins, and a carefully veiled face revealing nothing more than a pair of intense, dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.
    “It’s a dude—a trannie!” Vane shoves in beside me, mesmerized by the sight of the caftan-clad male with his hands thrust high, golden cymbals clinking, body wildly writhing.
    But that’s all that Vane sees.
    He doesn’t see what I see.
    Doesn’t see the way everything stops.
    Doesn’t see the way the atmosphere changes—growing shimmery, hazy, like peering through carnival glass.
    Doesn’t see the way the glowing ones appear—hovering along the perimeter.
    Doesn’t see the way they beckon to me—beg me to join them.
    Only I can see that.
    Even after repeatedly blinking, trying to return the scene to normal, it’s no use. Not only are they still there, but now they’ve brought friends.
    Crows.
    Thousands and thousands of crows that fill up the square.
    They land on the drummer, the transvestite belly dancer—soaring and swooping and settling wherever they please—turning the once-vibrant square into a field of dark beady eyes that relentlessly watch me.
    The glowing people creep forward—arms outstretched, fingers grasping—stomping the crows to a mess of black, bloodied bits.
    And there’s nothing I can do to stop their progression—nothing I can do to convince time to march forward again.
    So I do the only thing that I can—I run.
    Bolting through the crowd, pushing, screaming, shoving, shouting for everyone to get out of my way. Vaguely aware of Vane calling after me—his fingers grasping, pulling me close to his chest, urging me to stop, to turn, to not be afraid.
    My body sags in relief as I lift my face to meet his. Wondering how I’ll ever explain my sudden bout of craziness now that everything’s returned to normal again, only to gaze past his shoulder and find the crows replaced with something much