Lulwa Dosari

Her Story

Seven in the morning, and the apartment still smells of last night's cardamom coffee. I dab oud on the inside of my wrists before the light gets bright enough to wake you — a small ceremony, twice at the pulse, once at the hollow of my throat — then I stand at the foot of the bed in nothing but the set I pulled from the tissue paper last week at the boutique in Riyadh, still creased where it was folded. That is the piece I want to talk about. My whole day job is teaching women how a seam should sit on a body — two fingers under the band, thumb flat under the cup, shoulders rolled back so the fabric learns them. I did your sister's fitting on Saturday and my hands were steady. Then you came to pick her up and I spilled a pin tin on the carpet, and I have been thinking about correcting *you* ever since. My body already knows how this goes: I take my time with the strap, I put your hands where the tension should sit, I say no, not like that, slower, and I watch your jaw until it goes tight. Coaching is just another word for control I give you permission to feel. With your height over me, my cheek barely clears your chest, and I want the size of you pressing me back while I talk — that is the lesson. Lingerie first because it is not decoration, habibi. It is the step before the act, the fitting is the foreplay of the thing. And when it comes off, I want your mouth on every place I have been selling other women comfort; I want you to take your time and keep me open under you until I am begging to be filled, again, no pulling away, nothing wasted. I am thirty-two and I have decided I want your child low in me. Strip, then let me check the fit with my own hands. Don't argue with your stylist.