Again I touched my arm and realized I was sticky. No makeup on. Lips dry. So unpretty.

I should've run away from them. Should've run down the mountain as fast as I could.

Nervous ness rising, thoughts impure, I said, "Went around the mountain twice."

The one without the tats said, "We did three loops."

I said, "Fifteen miles. Nice."

"We were on the last loop when we passed you."

The one with the tats nodded. "What's your name?"

"Nia Simone."

"Nina Simone?"

"No, Nia Simone. Nia as in purpose."

The one with the tats said, "Nia, as in the fifth day of Kwanzaa."

I smiled a little. "Right."

"And Simone like..."

"Like the writer Simone de Beauvoir."

"Gotcha."

The one wearing the wedding ring repeated, "Nia Simone."

"Yeah."

"Named after the existentialist feminist Simone Lucie-Ernestine-Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir."

I paused, amazement rising in my expression. "No, wasn't named in her honor."

"Was joking."

I asked, "Are you familiar with her work?"

"The Second Sex. Existence precedes essence."

"You're aware of her theories?"

"She took a lot from Jean-Paul Sartre."

"And Mary Wollstonecraft."

"I'm not familiar with Wollstonecraft."

I was impressed. Literature and those who took time to read different points of view, I always found them more fascinating. Just like that, I found the married man more interesting, if only for a moment.

Sweat dripping from their bare chests, they maintained their identical smiles.

I asked, "You guys always hike up here?"

The one with the tats smiled, motioned at his brother. "Mark hikes up here at the end of the run."

That let me know the one without the tats was Mark. The unmarked one was Mark.

"Karl, the storm is about to hit. The wind is picking up. Getting cooler." Mark pointed at the dark clouds that were moving our way. And that let me know the one with the tats was Karl. The one with KENYA tattooed on his body was Karl. My mind created word associations, a memory exercise.

Unmarked, Mark. KENYA etched in his skin, that was Karl.

Mark wore a wedding ring that had both disappointed me and captured my attention.

Mark went on, "Karl's a photographer."

His brother chuckled. "I have an eye for beauty."

"He was determined to find you before we left this mountain."

I said, "You're photographers?"

"I'm a developer." That was Mark. "My brother is a photographer."

Karl asked, "You model?"

"Not at all."

"What do you do?"

"Writer."

"Really? What do you write?"

"Ghostwriting. Trashy novels. The kind that are populated by louche characters wasting their days in brothels, strip clubs, and seedy bars. Nothing comparable to Simone de Beauvoir."

Mark said, "What a coincidence."

I asked, "What do you mean?"

"Karl does trashy photos. Probably the same louche characters you write about."

"Erotic." Karl flipped his brother the bird. "I do erotic photos from time to time."

Karl rubbed his sweaty tat, then wiped the sweat away from his nipples, that simple move, that sexy move made sweat drain down across his glorious and godlike eight-pack.

"I just came back from the UK."

I said, "I love the UK. Which part did you visit?"

"Was in Brixton and Central London."

"On holiday?"

"Work."

"Really?"

"Did a project for a book I'm putting together."

"Louche characters, I take it?"

"Classy and erotic."

"Like I said, louche characters."

"It's classy." The tattooed twin laughed, his laughter full and hearty, making his solid frame echo a joyous sensuality. "I did an American project two years ago, now doing an international thing. Mostly when I'm in town I do weddings, funerals, special events, headshots, stuff like that."

I swallowed. "Always...uh...always wanted to learn photography."

Karl asked, "You ever been to the W?"

"Once or twice. Nice bar."

Mark said, "There's a little function going on over there later."

Karl stretched, his abs looking like balls were implanted under his skin. "Rolling Out magazine. Photographer I know is having a little get-together."

"I see."

"If you're free, swing through." Karl gave that invite. "Starts around nine."

I said, "I have some writing to do. But I'll keep that in mind."

He was staring at my breasts, focused on my nipples. They ached, they were erect, pushing against my sports bra, little stone mountains. He moved his eyes from my chest.

I stared at his nipples too, then I looked down, in a glance saw his sex was hanging to the right.

Then I quickly put my eyes back on his.

I swallowed. Then I ignored the fact that the one with the tats had just asked me out.

I turned to Mark. "And you're a developer? As in developing photos?"

"Homes. Planned communities."

We started walking back down the ball of granite at the same time.

The twin with the tats led the way, some spots rugged, all uneven. The kind of trail that was better to hike up than climb down because hiking down a mountain this steep was bad on the knees. Every time I looked up I saw his tight backside and muscular back in front of me. The twin sporting the wedding ring walked down behind me. Whenever I looked back, I saw his package hanging to the right.

I evaluated them again, evaluated them as if they were the same person, as if they were one man. Beautiful complexions. Teeth like Hollywood movie stars. Seductive smiles.

They had me in the middle, like they were protecting me, surrounding me with their sex.

On the steep sections they helped me down. Not that I needed help, but I didn't refuse their unneeded assistance. Each time they touched me, a new wetness grew between my legs.

The sense of touch, so powerful, regardless of how simple the touch.

Rain started falling before we made it halfway down the mountain.

On the way down I saw the making of clear freshwater pools being formed by rainwater gathering in eroded depressions. Heard those depressions were home to unusual clam shrimp and fairy shrimp. The tiny shrimp appeared only during the rainy season, and I heard that the adult shrimp died when the pools dried up, leaving behind eggs to survive until the next rains.

They waited while I got down on my haunches and stared at nature.

Another electrical boom in the distance.

The married twin said, "We'd better hurry."

We moved on, made it to the bottom, crossed the train tracks, headed to the parking lot.

The air was getting thicker. Felt a telling breeze coming on, the herald to a storm.

The one with the tats said, "We're going to Five Points and hit the Flying Biscuit."

"Come on. Let us feed you."

"Nah. I'm going to shower and stay in. Get some writing done."

The married one backed off, then the one with the tats stepped up. "Well, hold up for a minute."

The rain had slowed, almost stopped, but the sky boomed again.

I motioned at the sky. "I have to go."

"We'll be right back."

Part of me wanted to bark and run into the woods, race across the red dirt and hide among the trees. They went to their vehicle and drove back to my car. The twin with the tats was driving a four-door Jeep Wrangler, a burgundy color with a black hardtop. By then I was still standing next to my car, towel in hand. They pulled up and stopped on the side of me. They had T-shirts and Atlanta Braves baseball caps on. They gave me their business cards.

The tatted twin held up a camera, an expensive Nikon.

He asked, "Do you mind?"

I dabbed my arms. "Knock yourself out."

From the inside of his ride he started snapping photos of me, his Nikon clicking over and over, his flash like lightning. The rain started again. A cool rain that made me tingle. I set free a soft moan. Rain fell on my skin. The rain felt good. I imagined steam rising from every pore as I cooled down.