1) Rita's Song - Armenia (From Songs From The Women Of The L. O. M.) (Prose / Bio) Poem by Otradom Pelogo

The Next Phase
Rita's Song

On one of my many, though I would like to say, rare attempts at trying to either leave or return as scheduled, and it just so happens, Dubai has become the place for my ever present futile attempts at trying to board a plane on time. Even at this moment, I sit here, having supposed to have left a day earlier and at this very moment, still not exactly sure when I will be leaving. I stand today in the same spot that I was standing on the day of my departure from here last time; saying that I can't believe this is happening again; it happens every time, and something that I had to note before continuing, (this amusing thought that broke my concentration of exasperation when finally giving up and trying to write to forget about it all until tomorrow) about the story of a lady that I will only have a short time to write about before sending this on to the publisher for printing; but couldn't go on without telling you about a woman whom I met while on my trip from the Middle East, heading to Europe, and fortunately enough to have been able to see her one more time on my way back here (to the U.S.) or should I say farther East, to Iraq before returning.

She walked in when I was ordering a cup of coffee before going out into the city to buy, amongst other things, guitar strings, for this new found passion of mine, (after having made attempts at playing the guitar, piano, keyboard and the trumpet, which I think is still broken, least that's what I say rather than trying to give an example as to why it, the trumpet, only sits on the top shelf of the closet at my mother's place.) , though I should have been heading back several days ago; I quietly repeat this to myself, hoping that, least next time, it will help. Yet she, Rita, walked up just like myself and ordered coffee, glanced over for a brief second, which I only caught out of the corner of my eye, and continued to sip. With only one or two other people in the room, I began staring at her, surreptitiously, but on a few occasions to find her discretely looking my way, and with a subtle smile where I began to wonder had, although I noticed her when she walked into the place, ordered and took her first sip, had I mis-queued and noticed her serendipitously late; for I did, after moments of thinking about it, walk over, and at her acceptance, ordered more to drink and began a dialogue into a world of a beautiful woman from Armenia; who has me call her by the familial appellation, Rita.

Today the place is empty basically, one or two people leaving, a few passing in and out, but this is the beginning of summer; and because Dubai is basically nice and warm year round, it attracts many peoples from the continent of Europe to the Far East and from Africa to the Indian subcontinent, especially to its famous beaches and tourist attractions. Though in the Middle East to talk about the weather is still traditionally a delicate situation; it can easily, on many days, reach over one hundred and twenty, even a hundred and thirty degrees; it gives a new meaning to saying, well I grew up in Texas, at least you don't have the humidity, but I also have truly become accustomed to it, even more so being an avid jogger, where I'll, like a lot of others, put on a pair of shorts and go for an afternoon jog. But writing, and truly growing up in Texas with a rather diverse climate ourselves, though on a nice hot summer, reaching only about one hundred and fifteen, I automatically have it in just about every paper I write, basically being a sun worshiper, and had thus written about it several times of course before being told, to speak of it with added prudence. And thus, the lights are prudently turned off in certain parts of the building; the needed light squeezing through the stenciled letters on the doors and windows, along with the aroma of giant skewed slabs of either chicken, beef or mutton walking in each time the door opens from the restaurant exactly adjacent, and it gives that invitingly dark and cool feeling that can only be appreciated on days like this. Any other time, the room would be filled with many people; men, equally as many as the beautiful women that frequent the place, adding the missing pleasure to the romantically shadowed coolness of the day.

A nice cool red and white shirt, red pants, fitting sensuously stylish on her, it forced a meticulous and playful pan from head to toe that was met with soft white shoes and a robust walk of prowess; and that picture for many reasons, a few which I shall shortly explain, engrained on both the mind and heart. One, though I can't truly tell while sitting down; how tall she is. I am six feet tall, though automatically knowing that I'm taller; but until I walked over and introduced myself did I truly realize it. And two; at least, the second reason, is that being about five feet tall, a pleasant difference in height; the height, walk and persona, being very familiar, and if it were not for the romantically foreign accent, auburn hair, and several thousand miles away, she could have been the incarnation of a past affair, facetiously speaking; marriage. Though like anyone finally moving again, it is welcomed, for it brings fresh images, not of the past, but the future, without remorse of seeing something familiar of days being perpetually secured; and knowing that now they may be used as life pleases; once again bringing pleasure and fortunately enough, more than the ability to imbibe a lovely young woman from Armenia who now is willing, besides sharing the future with me, also a cup of tea and a nice cordial conversation.

The atmosphere there in this small, though quite pleasant café, is a very cordial and relaxed one; I have since I first stopped there on several trips to and from the states (US) , checked in, ordered a shisha, I think apple flavored tobacco and a hot cup of Turkish coffee, and have made The Ambassador my domicile away from home, least away from work, since working overseas requires that you live there, and thus you will get to know many of the residents that frequent this café and live nearby. I would sit for hours, watching TV and sipping on something nice, I'm often invited to a game of pool, if not from the cook from India, one of the local residents of the Diera District, and if you have seen, as they say, seen me play, you would understand that it's much more than just a game of pool but a token of welcome and the beginning of a friendship, though it will be more discretely shared than openly expressed; especially when the last shot of the game, which I'm winning up until that point, amusingly ends with either a Minnesota Fats or Willie Misconi super, duper trick shot, and a smile until next time from the host.
Rita will be noticed and missed as we escape the TV, conversations and patrons playing at the video games; there is a bond of camaraderie that also acts as a firewall against insecurities of friendships long shared. And thus, we are now sitting down on either side of a small coffee table, facing an opened curtained window, (where you probably wouldn't dare wave at the neighbors, but could certainly if you tried) and continuing our litany into one another's lives.

And that conversation will lead to a house that she desires to build in Armenia, probably along with Mom, a sister and a brother, and though I offered to buy, if I had the resources at the moment, and live with Mom, sister and brother; though she only agreed for a two to three day trial period, and to be tour guide if that was enough that either of us could handle, though I thought it was quite amusing, she did seem sincere and made me promise if I did decide to go there that I would give her a call, and she even gave me the number to her sister's house, where if I could not get in touch with her, I could call her home.

I think she somehow knew me from a past life, or she was truly the incarnation of the last affair, though vaguely in height and stature with a genuine politeness which caused me to almost literally beg her, after taking the time while in the shower sponging down my back with soap and warm water, to come back in so that I could have the pleasure of returning such a sweet gesture. And after a nice shower on a warm Dubai afternoon, I made her lay down with only bath towel so that I could easily message her back and shoulders, which I was glad that she seemed to have relaxed from as she lay quiet and still. After a few moments of hoping, while on top of her, that she was truly enjoying one of the many gifts that we had shared with one another since meeting downstairs only hours ago, she opened her eyes, where in that very instant while enjoying the pleasure of having my fingers sink into the nice, soft and pink flesh of a fragile frame, I could hear her quiet request that would have me reach over, while still on top as she is now laying on her back and now looking at me while I'm now slowly but passionately making love to her and add a sweet melody to love making. And though I tried to escape; only in mind without attempting at this plea that would give love immortality and tantalize the soul, she would not release me. And as I slowly and articulately strummed, as if a virtuoso, she also, to the rhythm of the guitar, the request, the acceptance, the performance of having one hand lightly upon her shoulder, and the other at her request to melody which we both desired as she lay holding me inside of her; condoning her approval. And as I and Heaven's orchestra conclude only the music which we had created for her, I grabbed her in my arms and as my fingers slid off of the last string, no longer with the discipline to restrain lust, love and passion, now grabbing both of her legs; she, now grabbing both of my arms, with a sincere, lustful and passionate smile, in a low and intense roar, bringing us back from the duns of beautiful Dubian dessert.

She said that she wanted a gift from me; and it is always on my mind, though many times I forget to share something lasting that will make someone truly remember you and the time that was shared. I hadn't been shopping much and had brought only one suitcase with me, but hurried over as we were about to head back downstairs, opened it up and began to search fervidly, and ironically remembered that last time I was there, just before heading to France for a week, that I had bought what the sells lady told me was called a martyr's ring. there was a young lady sitting at a table with me one day or so before I left to catch the plane, and she was playing with a ring that she had taken off of her finger and then rolling it from one hand to other on the table, and it accidentally rolled my way; catching it before it rolled to the edge of the table and politely handing it back to her. Therefore while I was visiting one of the temple near the famous Place de la Concorde, L'église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine (The Church of Saint Mary Madeleine)) where just after entering through the archway, there was a small concession, I bought one for myself, and couldn't help but think about how cute it was seeing the young lady playing with the ring, and though I knew that I would probably not see her again, I bought another one, saying that I would give it to her, or would certainly give it to one of the lovely young ladies there, which I'm sure they would have enjoyed. But I searched, and couldn't find it; I bring it up because I recently did find it, and wondered why I didn't see it when wanting to give it to Rita. But there was a pair of pretty little slippers that I had bought for my niece, with the head of one of the cute cartoon characters on it, which I'm sure she would have known which one it was; and thus thought twice, and felt that the extra special meaning behind it would make the perfect gift to give to her, where she immediately put them on and truly enjoyed wearing them. So I grabbed a small bag and placed them in it for her before giving her a kiss and a hug good-bye.

I met Rita a few times after that...; and as I said, this is only a brief story of our first meeting.
Love, Otadom