The fingers of dawn light tickled my nose. I opened my eyes in an unfamiliar space, next to a rather attractive man with greying hair and a beautiful ass. I wondered what his name was. I slid out of bed, to watch dawn stretch across the hardwood floors of the loft. Created from some industrial building somewhere. I passed the full length mirror on the armoire. About 5’ 4’, wild hair, slight curve to the back, but thighs didn’t met. Not bad for a . . . damn how old was I, who was I. There was no familiarity staring back at me. Some part of my still functioning brain said coffee, so I scooped up my clothes, pulling on my skirt, and top on the way to the kitchen area.

I remembered the coffee was ground for the morning, where the beautiful hand-thrown mugs where, that I liked my coffee dark, deep and with heavy cream. Routines, so embedded in the neuropath ways. Yet a skyline that escaped my memory – London, Paris, NYC, Toronto, Halifax – any where with a nineteen century industrial revolution.

I sat at the counter, so far into myself to solve the mystery, I didn’t know he was up until a felt hands on my shoulders and a kiss on the top of my head. “No coffee for me?, hazel eyes inquired.  The standard: “I was trying to let you sleep.” “Lyttea, you should know can’t sleep through something as exotic and erotica as the aroma of coffee,” came the reply as he fiddled with making coffee. So, I was Lyttea, and my hazel eyed companion was . . . Just a sec – forget Pete called – do you mind He picked up his cell, “Hey Pete, It’s Reg   . . . . . . . . “ Reg. Lyttea & Reg in Reg’s loft – too masculine to be mine place I observed.

Reg, mug in hand, said, “I’m off for a shower – care to join me,” he said with a purposeful leer. I shook my head. Did we shower together often?

Reg, put his mug down, and pulled me to my feet, “Something is on your mind, girl, this morning – and I hope it’s me.” Then he kissed with such passion, I almost melted into a pool of shower gel. But, held strong. I decided I’d finish dressing and sneak out. Maybe fresh air would clear this fuzzed up head.

I slapped that fine ass off to the bathroom, and sat down again to ponder “I really wish I knew what was going on.” I said.

There was a puff of suspicious smoke, the sound of dancy-dancy music, and a party-girl leaning a bit to the right, with a margarita glass in hand stepped out. “Damn, girl, you dragged me from one fine party. What goes on is you bumped your head in your esurience activities with sweet ass hazel eyes last night, should just be temporary memory loss, like a concussion those sports guys get.

I stared, “But who are you, why did you just pop in, how do you know what I did last night?”

She sighed, “Look I’m Barbara, your frigging genie roomie and to hurry this little conversation up, here’s a wish grant on the house.”

I felt a zap, then my head hurt, then I smiled remembering why my head hurt.   

Written for Tale Weaver 87, Lost in a Foreign Land. As usual, I kinda didn’t follow Michael’s excellent suggestions and instructions. Barbara and Lyttea (not then named) appeared in the response to another tale weaver prompt Tale Weaver #84 September 8: Juiced Genie (or be careful of what you wish for) as “Barbara, and I and the Sultan of Swing

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