“I know which girl I’m with.” I finished my curry and pushed the plate away. “You’re the one whose ass isn’t boney.”

“Try harder.”

“You’re the beautiful, naked, amazing clever one.”

“Better. Mmmm.” Sa’afia got up to hug me. I got beautiful bare breasts, the amazing breasts of a clever woman, against my curry-stained shirt. 

I stood and put my arms around Sa’afia. I kissed her and held her as if I meant it nearly as much as in truth I did. She relaxed into me. And I said, “who doesn’t shoplift. Or maybe you just don’t get caught.”

John Wayne in “McClintock”. But you knew that.

“You! You fucking …” Sa’afia struggled in my arms, like the heroine in a late John Wayne movie. It was a movement like a washing machine agitator, all energy and power and no intention of actually going anywhere.

But to stay in genre – late John Wayne – I smacked her ass again. And again. And she still hung on to me. And again. And again. And by then we knew some things about how this night would be.

Eventually I let my hands stay on her incredible ass and just squeezed. “Believe me, when I do that, it’s personal.”

“Mmmm.” Sa’afia let herself sound half-convinced. She wanted a better compliment.

But I only smacked her again, and said, “bed.”

“You’re assuming a lot right now, aren’t you?”

“Sa’afia. I mean it with all sincerity. Your bedroom. Your bed. Now.”