The morning after Samson kissed me and I fled, I arose early and ground enough grain to make bread. By the time Samson made his appearance, I was taking fresh bread from the oven. I had picked figs from the tree that grew inside my back gate. A jar of mulberry wine was at hand. A dish of apricots and almonds preserved in thick syrup completed the morning repast.

I bade Samson recline on the fine leather mat I had spread under the fig tree and served him, standing to the side ready to attend him if the need arose. Turning to me, he said, "While I'm sure this wine is most tasty, I would prefer either goat's milk or water with my meal." 

When I returned with the requested drink, he detained me, "Come, please. Sit and dine with me. Since no one else is present there is no need for formality."

"It is not a woman's place to dine with a man," I demurred, as would a proper lady.

"I don't really care whether it is customary. I like conversation while I eat, and I am loathe to eat in front of you. Please, won't you join me?" 

Sitting across from him and leaning against the trunk of the fig tree, I replied, "As you wish."

For a few moments we ate in companionable silence. Then he leaned toward me and asked, "How is it that one so young and fair remains a widow? Since you do not wear mourning attire, I assume your husband has been dead some time."

Looking down at my ordinary clothing, I said, "Yes, the period of mourning is past. As for why I am still unwed, that is how I prefer it."

"But surely some kinsman will soon claim all this," he said, waving his hand. "Then what will you do?"

"There is no other kin."

"There is always distant kin determined to prove the existence of a blood relation when property like this is involved."

"No one has come forward."

"Would you be willing to entertain a suitor?"

Eyes widening I countered, "No suitor has come forward either."

"Would you object to an Israelite?"

"I am a worshipper of Dagon and Asherah," I hedged, preferring not to answer outright.

"Some Philistine women have been known to convert when marrying into another faith."

"Some. I am not such a one."

"Why not?"

"I am unworthy. Besides, you are returning home today, are you not?"

"That was my original plan. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps I should stay here to court you."

"It would be improper for you to stay in my home while courting me."

His lazy smile transformed his face as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Who will know that I am courting you? I will find business to occupy me for at least a few hours each day."

Looking down and rubbing my hands together, I answered, "Gossip waits for no man. Do you not understand the hatred of the Philistines for the legendary Samson? A pretense at business will not save our reputations."

"I don't give a fig about my reputation," he said with a dark look like a thundercloud at midday. "But your reputation is another matter."
Realizing I was jeopardizing the money I had been promised, I reached up and removed my veil allowing my shorn locks to be exposed. I knew that if Samson stayed, he would soon be apprised of my trade. I wanted the knowledge to come from me and not from another.

"There is little you can do to damage my reputation," I said as a single tear wound its way down my cheek.

Reaching out his hand, Samson wiped the tear with his thumb and licked the salty tidbit. Then kissing his thumb, Samson pressed the damp appendage to my lips.

"Who has caused you to take up this trade?" he asked. "I would avenge your honor."

Shaking my head sadly, I replied, "You are too late, Samson. My own father is the one who took my virginity and then sold my favors to his friends. He is dead and so my honor cannot be avenged. I may be young, but my body has been well used for years. Now you understand why I am allowed to live in this house with no kinsman coming to claim it. My suitors are powerful men. They will protect me from anyone who tries to take my home, as long as I am willing to satisfy their lust and as long as my beauty remains undimmed."

"Then why did they send me here and tell me you are a widow?"

"Perhaps so they could laugh at you for being duped."

"Well, I will have the last laugh, my pretty one. I will stay here. While I am here, they will not dare come to seek your favors."

"And what will be my responsibility to you for this..." I paused in search of an appropriate word and then ended lamely, "protection?"

"You will be my hostess. I will pay for food and lodging. I admit you arouse my desire, but I will not add to the degradation your father forced upon you. If we mate, it will be for love, not money."

Laughing bitterly, I countered. "According to rumor, you have tasted the forbidden fruit of the courtesan before. Am I less desirable?"

Reaching across the table, Samson placed his hand beneath my chin and raised my face until I was forced to look into his eyes. There I glimpsed naked desire, but something more. Something I had never seen in anyone's eyes save the eyes of my mother. With a jolt, I recognized the emotions that warred inside this powerful giant. His obvious lust was tempered by love.

In a low, urgent voice, he said, "You are more desirable. With you I want more than a one-night stand. I offer you my heart."

At this statement, the cynic inside me chortled while the desperate child whispered, "Love, he offers his love." I stared into Samson's eyes for what seemed an eternity while the two fought for control of my mind. Finally large tears pooled in the corners of my eyes and begin to spill down over Samson's hand.

In a husky voice garbled by overwhelming emotion, I responded, "My body is yours for the taking. My heart," I stifled a sob. "My heart has been so trampled; it no longer knows how to love."

At this, I tore my gaze from Samson's, not wanting to see the budding love be overtaken by resignation and be replaced by naked lust. However, his hand did not release my jaw so I could only close my eyes to keep from watching the inevitable.

As I sat with eyes closed while tears continued to fall unchecked, I felt Samson's free arm slide behind my back. Dropping my chin he slid his arm under my bent knees and easily lifted me from my side of the leather table. Positioning me in his lap, he slid one hand into my hair in a gentle caress. I felt his lips on the top of my head as he murmured quietly, "My poor, sweet Delilah. I will teach you to love again." Then his lips moved down to my eyes as he tenderly kissed away my tears. Finally his mouth found mine. The salty taste of tears mingled with the sweet nectar left behind by apricot preserves. He was surprisingly gentle as his mouth pressed against my pliant lips. Just as I lost myself in the sweet sensation, he pulled his mouth from mine.

In a soft voice that came out as a low growl because of repressed emotion, he sighed, "I want to show you love, Delilah, but I am still a man with the lusts and desires of a man. Holding your slender form close while tasting of your delectable sweetness is more than a man can bear."

Lifting me unceremoniously from his lap, he placed me back on the opposite side of the table. While gazing into my surprised eyes he took a piece of pita bread, dipped it into the apricot syrup and held it up to my lips. Unable to free myself from his hypnotic stare, I opened my lips and took a small bite. Then I watched as he slowly lifted the rest to his mouth and ate.

For some reason this action freed my mind and body from the trance-like state that had overtaken me. Responding to the sensuous nature of the action, I resorted to the flirtatious nature that had carried me through all the masculine relationships I had encountered thus far. In a sultry voice I said, "Why must you deny your manhood in order to show me love?"

As I spoke I dropped my hand to the belt that bound my mantle, concealing a tight, form-fitting dress with slender straps and thin bits of cloth covering my breasts.

Before I could loosen the sash, Samson reached across and stayed my hand while commanding, "No, Delilah!"

Looking up in surprise, I found my face only inches from the flowing beard that covered Samson's chin.

"You are resorting to the coquetry you learned at your father's knee. I want you to relate to me first as a person. The other has its place in a relationship. But if it comes first, conversation and companionship are hard to retrieve. Sit here and talk with me as a friend. Forget the wiles of the temptress for a time."

Embarrassed, I looked down. "I do not know how to make ordinary conversation," I admitted in a low voice. "Men have never wanted words from me. My body has always spoken for me. How does conversation enhance love?"

"Love is more than heated infatuation. Love involves respect and mutual admiration."

Samson paused, seeming to struggle to find the words he wanted.

"I was attracted to you at the wedding feast, but that was infatuation. Even last night when I saw you at the gate, I was guided more by lust than love. My respect and admiration began when you did not allow the threat of a wild dog to turn you into a cowering, helpless maid demanding my protection. It was heightened when you risked your reputation to wash my feet, caring more about offering a weary man hospitality than about what I might read into the gesture."

As I made to interrupt, he silenced me. "This morning I know that you had no reputation to risk, but at that moment you knew I thought you a respectable widow. I am certain the prostitute in you wanted to take advantage when I kissed you last night. You could have easily heightened my desire and demanded money for fulfilling it. I don't know why you chose to leave my room last night. I know your body responded to my kiss; an experienced man does not misread ardor. When you fled, you captured my heart. I want to allow that love to grow, Delilah. I want you to return my love. Then, we can fulfill the other desires."

"How do I learn to love?" I asked, my confusion evident in my tone.

"Share with me the part of you that hides behind the courtesan mask," he replied. "Let me meet the innocent Delilah that has been forced to cower in the secret places of the heart."

"That Delilah is dead," I said flatly. "My father killed her with his beatings and his unwanted advances."

"I think she is only wounded. Why else would you have refrained from bedding me last night? Somewhere deep inside she is hiding, wanting to be loved. Let me love her, Delilah."

Haltingly, I began to tell Samson my story. I told him how my mother had become ill when I was quite young. By the time I was nine, she was too weak to keep up the house. I cleaned and cooked, doing all of the things a mother normally would do to make a household run smoothly. Then one night, my father came home drunk. When he was certain my mother slept, he came to my bed and began to fondle me. He told me how much he missed the touch of a woman. He told me it was my duty as a good daughter to do all the things my mother could not do. He told me he would teach me. For years, while my mother lay sick, he came to me many nights. He was usually drunk when he came to my bed. He told me I was not to say anything to her because it would make her sad that she could no longer meet his needs.

When I was twelve, my mother died. My father continued to use my body but he also became abusive. He would beat me when I did not respond in the way he desired. Then when I was thirteen, he told me he could not work any longer and that I would be responsible for providing an income. When I asked who would want such a puny girl as a maid, he laughed.

"It is not your cleaning skills that are marketable," he told me. "Your body is blossoming. Men will pay to lay with you. You will do for my friends the same things you do for me in the night."

He bought me makeup and seductive dress. He brought a woman to our house to teach me how to paint myself. She taught me about perfumes and how to make my own. When my father was not listening, she whispered to me about protection. She told me where I could find a healer to give me herbs to keep me from becoming pregnant or, failing that, to abort a child. She was the one who made it clear to me that what my father had done was abnormal. She educated me on the position I would be forced to take in society because of my father's treachery. What innocence was left, she abolished with her words. Hers was a harsh task, yet she was actually doing me a kindness, preparing me to face my lot in the world."

"Until that day, I had been the 'delicate' child the name Delilah can mean," I told Samson. "Afterwards, I became the 'flirt,' which is the other meaning of my name."

"I think the delicate Delilah still exists," Samson responded. "She has just been overpowered by the flirt. You have shown me a different face than you show most men. I can love that Delilah."

"She is a weakling," I responded. "Why would anyone love her?"

"She is not a weakling," Samson stated. "She is simply a child with a broken spirit."