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Ghammal didn’t show and it is now close to eleven. The traffic couldn’t be that bad this early in the morning. “Christine,” Michael’s urgent whisper comes from a side chamber. Rushing in I see a small figure sitting in a dark corner. It’s Ghammal. On closer inspection, I see his swollen bloody face, the dry blood on his left ear and a small blue hole in the middle of his forehead. Most disturbing of the scene is that Ghammal’s tied hands are holding his formidable penis. Michael grabs my hand and pulls me up and out the chamber, down passages, past the tourists, up the stairs, out the gate and into the heat of the morning sun. I gasp for air, but Michael pulls me further along. “We should have helped him.” I can barely breathe. “How?” asks Michael. “Ghammal is fucking dead.” “The police. We have to let the authorities know.” “What can we tell them?” Michael is right. “I don’t want to rot in an Egyptian jail for the rest of my life.” The warm sun forces more air from my aching. I'm typically a more conservative dresser, but I'm not opposed to some light exhibitionism. Besides, my lust was starting to take over and I figured we wouldn't know anyone where we were going anyhow. He watched me walk down my front stairs and looked me up and down and wolf whistled as I folded my long legs into the front seat next to him. I leaned over and gave him a slow, sensual kiss and he stole a look down my dress as we pulled away, no doubt making a mental note that I wasn't wearing a bra. The ride there was pleasant and uneventful. We sang along to the radio, chatted and I looked out the window at the scenery. We spent the day wandering a waterfront boardwalk, checking out small local shops and stopped for lunch. I secretly love the glances we get from strangers who notice our visual age difference as we kiss and hold hands. Perhaps they're disapproving, but I prefer to assume they're jealous.At lunch, I ran my foot up and down his leg under the table and we reminisced.
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