Walking With Woman
Written by Aryeh Hareef. Aryeh is a first-time Jewrotica writer. 
“Just give me permission,” he says, as they stroll side by side in the early autumn dusk, time and seasons transitioning from summer fertility to winter dormancy. Their hips bump once, maybe twice, accidentally but now so frequently grazing against one another that it has already become the first tacit agreement in their budding relationship.
He struggles to restrain himself from turning his head to look at her as they stay in step effortlessly, her long, lean legs carrying her lithe figure so regally that he can’t help but think of how casually giraffes graze on the tops of trees. Impossible animals, giraffes; a constant reminder from the Conductor to always keep one’s sense of humor.
He is keenly aware of the heaviness of the moment, the density of all possible futures wrestling with destiny’s desire that the most difficult of struggles obtain. He knows that he must not speak, regardless of how long the silence grows. He takes a moment to internally thank God for this magical creature striding beside him and how easy she has been to talk with, how comfortable and achingly close to release the silences have been. It is as if they have been locked in an embrace of moving one another closer and even infinitesimally closer to getting there together for the first time, yet they understand that real life constraints prevent their poetic souls from achieving what their fleshly bodies long to do.
She mulls over the audacity of his question just long enough for it to register that it wasn’t even a question. He is so brazen that even in asking for permission he makes it a command rather than a request. She feels her anger rising but quickly quells it, realizing that she doesn’t want to be angry at him. It may have been a command but it was uttered gently, as all his words seem to be.
She recalls the timbre of his resonant voice and allows it to echo between her ears. She gets lost in her mind in the depth of it, the quiet confidence that projects from the calm vibration deep along his vocal cords. This is a voice comfortable commanding men and seducing women. This is a voice that had always been divinely gifted and had emerged while he was studying for his Bar Mitzvah. This is a voice that could have been cantorial in another place and time, if not for the familial rupture of the Holocaust and the bitterness, anger and hatred the Shoah had instilled in him. It is a voice that had found its stride when he had been a DJ at his college radio station and realized that coeds were calling in and nearly begging that he just speak to them for a while off the air while he played long songs so they could pleasure themselves to completion.
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