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Freedom's Slave

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Heather Demetrios

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“Encounter w/ strange man June 3, approx. 2 a.m. White, 5'9", slightly scruffy, shaggy brown hair. Ripped T-shirt, jeans, no shoes. Origin and destination unknown, believed to be night wanderer. I chewed on the end of the pen, wondering if I should include any other details. It had been too dark to tell what color his eyes were. His voice had been deep, with a rasp, almost... but I couldn't write that. If my body was found in the woods behind the house, and investigators were competent enough to do a forensic analysis of this notebook, I didn't want editorializing words complicating the narrative. Words like compelling, or god forbid, sexy.”

Physical AttractionDissertationFirst Met
Book:Love in the Time of Serial Killers
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“It started when I met you in the rain forest. When I almost stepped on the cycad and the gloxinia, but you stopped me just in time." "That's when I made you go back and get the moonflower." "The umbilical cord, you called it." "We walked to Casablanca through the jungle." "And then alongside the ocean." "I liked you already." "I liked you, too. You introduced me to Tamatz Kauyumari. The oldest and biggest deer." "I sang you his spirit song." "And then he led us to Theobroma cacao." "I saw Panthera onca following you through the jungle, twice." "I never should have gone to the market without you, but you were sleeping." "That's where you met the Cashier." "And found the mandrake. And cichorium intybus. The plant of invisibility.”

SpiritualAdventureStoryPlantsFirst Met
Book:Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire
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“When she reached him, she put her hands on the bars and looked at him through them, her dark eyes wide. "It is you! Frasier said you were coming back, but he didn't know exactly when. It's been forever since you've answered a text. I was getting worried." Her presence blew over him like a fresh breeze. He found himself smiling at her, a little goofily. He must still be travel-drunk. "It was an intense road trip.”

Young LoveFirst MetGreeting
Book:Other Birds
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“The onlookers' rudeness irked Lavender. How quickly their veneer of courtesy fell away. Beholding the man, they acted as if they viewed an exhibit in some monstrous hall of wonders. Terrible as the ruined side of his face was to look upon, balancing it, the good half was nothing short of godlike. He stopped in front of her floral cart. As if swished away by some invisible magician's wand, the gawking masses faded, leaving only quietude---a radical privacy---as though a glass dome ventilated with fresh oxygen closed over the two of them, and they alone existed in the world. "Your flowers steal my breath away," he said. He wished to make a purchase. "How many bouquets or tussie-mussies, Sir?" "All of them," the man said, then pointed to the sachet that had, earlier, toppled into the dirt. "What is this?" "A scent-filled sachet." "Sewn with your own hands, I presume?" the man asked. She nodded. "What fills it?" "Achillea millefolium. Yarrow. It heals. Protects. It's also known as a love charm." "Heals, you say?" The man sighed. "If only it could." Then he inquired the cost---of everything. Normally, Lavender ciphered like the wind, but a tallying void struck. She told him... a number... some totted up, air-castle sum bolted from her mouth. He paid her. The sum almost overflowed her hands. She transferred the bounty into her coin purse. "I worship at your cart," the man declared. "And tomorrow, with even the slightest sliver of serendipity, you shall hear Mr. Whitman's divine words.”

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Book:The Apothecary's Garden
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“But now that I was here, standing less than two feet away from the most gorgeous man I had ever seen... Frederick J. Fitzwilliam's appearance was all I could think about. He looked like he was maybe in his mid-thirties, though he had the sort of long, pale, slightly angular face where it was hard to tell. And his voice wasn't the only thing with high production values. No, he also had this ridiculously thick, dark hair that fell rakishly across his forehead like he'd sprung fully formed out of a period drama where people with English accents kissed in the rain. Or like he was the hero from the last historical romance novel I'd read. When he gave me a small, expectant smile, a dimple popped in his right cheek.”

Sex AppealMale BeautyFirst MetHandsome Man
Book:My Roommate Is a Vampire
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“Star Wars was good. I liked Han Solo." "That makes sense. He's the nexus of true cowboy grit and a cocky, irreverent action hero--- flawed, ambitious, egotistical, daring, handsome, and charismatic. I always liked his swagger." "What's swagger?" he asked. "The combination of confidence and charm." "Does he remind you of anyone?" He leaned back against a tree, pulling me with him. I could feel his tension ease, so I relaxed, sinking against his broad chest. "No," I said, my lips quivering with a smile. "No one at all." "Hummph." He gave a snort of derision. "Are you sure? Maybe you should rethink your answer." "If you're looking for a boost to your massive ego, I think you're more of a Star-Lord type. He's in the inverse of Han Solo. Cocky yet oblivious, womanizing, facetious, conceited, charming but arrogant." He bristled behind me, his voice thick with indignation. "Conceited? Facetious? You obviously know nothing about me." "That's true. I haven't even had a good look at your face." "You'd change your mind if you knew me," he said. "You'd instantly think Han Solo and not Star-Lord." "I look forward to being proven wrong.”

FlirtingStar WarsPersonality TraitsFirst MetHan Solo
Book:To Have and to Heist
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