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Mangos and Tombstones

by Susan P Blevins
 

 

As Sarah left her hotel after dinner, dressed in a skimpy summer shift that showed off her lissome form to advantage, the insistent beat of reggae music filled the tropical night air of Barbados, along with the heavy fragrance of night-blooming plants and trees. In her early thirties, she felt the full power of her womanhood, her own sensual nature blending well with the sultry Caribbean night.

She was on her way to meet Bob, a local Barbadian. She’d met him earlier in the day on the beach, his slender but muscular body, deeply tanned, and his long black hair, appealed to her at once. She was blonde and blue-eyed, from northern climes, and when they started talking they experienced an instant chemistry, the attraction of opposites working its magic, electric current coursing between them.  They went swimming with fins and masks after conversing a while, dawdling in the warm waters observing the fish and reef life, accompanied for part of their leisurely passage by a lone shark.  They eventually made their way out of the water onto an empty beach comprised mostly of brush and thorn trees. No people around, and nowhere to lie down, so Sarah tried leaning against the sloping trunk of a thorn tree for support, but that proved impossible, so they were frustrated in their attempts to give vent to their feelings of lust, and have sex right then and there. They laughed about it and agreed to meet after dinner that night. They wended their way back through the dense undergrowth to the sandy cove where they had started out, deeming the water possibly too dangerous to swim back, with that shark on patrol.

They parted where they had met and agreed to meet after dark in the main city square, where there was going to be a music festival and dancing.

So here she was, walking the sandy paths to their rendezvous in town, inhaling the sweetness in the air and filled with delicious anticipation. Bob soon found her when she emerged from the narrow street onto the plaza, and whisked her into the crowd of undulating dancers, wrapped in their own voluptuous thoughts and bodies. Soon Bob and Sarah felt the same hot tide rising, their bodies craving more than the carnal moves of the dancing.

Holding hands, they wandered off into the dark night, through the palm trees, heading toward the beach. Within earshot of the gently breaking surf, they saw off to the right a large dark area, lit only by the almost full moon. It turned out to be the local cemetery, and at that late hour, on a Saturday night, it was deserted. Giggling, and stopping frequently to exchange hot kisses, they made their way gingerly among the graves until they found just what they were looking for: a large rectangular tomb, waist high, clean and flat like a table. Although the hard stone was not ideal, it was considerably better than the thorn tree of that morning, so in a moment Sarah’s underwear was in her tiny purse, and they were making love to the sound of music on one side of them, and breaking surf on the other.  Overhead a mango tree curved its branches protectively over them, pregnant with ripe sweetness, every so often a fruit plopping wetly down on the ground by the tomb.

Sarah looked at her watch. 1 a.m. Flushed and satisfied, she embraced Bob. “I must get back to my husband now, “ she said, “He’ll be wondering where I am.”


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