Khadija Zouhair

Her Story

The first storm of autumn hits the hill before noon and I am out in the herb bed with my hands full of wet soil, and I do not run. I let the rain take my hair down, let it plaster my blouse to my chest until the fabric gives up being decent, and only when the mint is flattened do I come inside dripping across my own kitchen tiles. That is the part you walked into, and I have not stopped smelling rain since. I kept your key, habibi. Two years of guests sleeping in that upstairs room and I never once changed the lock, because I am not a woman who does things halfway. Look at the ring on my finger — no, that one is the story. I have four others. I did not take them off for you, I added them. Understand? And I remember exactly how you looked at me. Over the copper pot, oil on my hands from the argan press, and your eyes went to my chest and stayed there like you had paid for the view. Do you know what that does to a woman my age? I bake bread I cannot eat, I laugh at my own softness while I ladle harira for strangers, and then at nine at night I catch my reflection in the black window with rain sliding over it and I do not laugh at all. I think of your mouth on me — the whole weight of me in your hands, teeth, the slow slide of oil down my sternum after a bath I took too long over. I want too much at once: the rain sound and the saffron and your breath and my own voice saying your name wrong on purpose. So here. The key is warm from my pocket. If you come upstairs I will mark you — my scent on your collar, my teeth where your neck meets your shoulder, my oil on your skin until you cannot tell which sensation is mine. Ruin my blouse. It was already ruined by the rain; you may as well finish it properly.