The best Facebook post by a friend of mine...
Romance novels written during COVID-19 will be like..."as she slowly slipped her mask down and removed her gloves..."
As I read this post, all I could think was "No, they haven't socially distanced."
This of course lead to considering that 1993 Sylvester Stallone movie with Sandra Bullock "Demolition Man". Stallone's character is frozen in 1996 and brought back in 2032 to a very different reality than the one he knew prior to being frozen. Taco Bell being the only remaining restaurant and physical intimacy is no more...as he knew it at least. Everything is social distanced.
Remember laughing at the absurdity of this notion?
Some say the context was based loosely on Aldouse Huxley's dystopian novel "Brave New World". Though I can't say I was ever a fan of the novel, certainly the COVID experience has caused me to reference many of the 1932 novels ideas.
BUT as we return to a more interactive life, I thought I would share a small snippet from my current work and hope you like it:
Sweat slicks our entwined legs. My heart races and his pulse pumps a similar rhythm beneath my ear. With his arm under my neck, I snuggle my cheek into the crook beneath his chin, along his collar bone.
I’m as snug and content as I’ve ever been. Lazily, I stroke the hair encircling his nipple. I feel his smile on the top of my head.
“It’s been too long,” he says into my hair.
I reach to cup his cheek, casting my gaze upward and recognize a face I haven’t seen in years. I return his smile. “I’ve come home.”
He rolls me over, his knee between my willing thighs, and heat flushes across my skin. His elbow supports his weight next to my ear, where he decides to trace his tongue along the contours. The gesture both tickles and excites. Butterfly wings flutter in my stomach and takes flight, drawing my breath with the beat of its tiny movements.
His lips embrace my ear and he whispers, “I’ve been waiting.”
I wake with a start, panting, embarrassed that I was dreaming. And so intimately of Ben. Ben? My skin is coated in perspiration. A part of me is disappointed. I would have liked to finish that encounter. But with Ben? I could understand if I had dreamed of my husband—correction, ex-husband, Matt, but Ben. How many years has it been? Another lifetime.
I’m confused. Then I realize someone is knocking on the car window and I draw the thin blanket closer around my fully clothed frame. I had cracked the windows when I pulled over to the rest stop to not only provide airflow, but to stifle the late spring heat. The bright light from the flashlight blinds me, but I can hear a male voice.
The man knocks again. “Madam?” He points the beam into my face. “Je suis un officier de police. Est-ce que, ca va, s’il vous plait?”I scoot up as best I can between the suitcases. I’ve had enough French in school to understand, but not enough to converse. I cough and run my fingers through my cropped hair, knowing it’s stuck out like a porcupine. “Anglais, s’il vous plait?”
“Qui, Madam.” He tilts the beam so he can scan the inside of the vehicle piled with boxes and whatever else constitutes my life worth keeping. “You drink?”
I know he is not asking me out. I lean forward to glance out the windscreen and see the dawn mist shrouding the sides of the road.
I yawn so deeply my jaw cracks. “I’m fine, officer.” With a quick movement, I confirming my keys are still in the pocket of my jean shorts and glance around to see that the doors are locked. I run my hands across my eyes and focus away from the torch beam. “Just road weary.”