Maha Alzahrani

Her Story

The fitting-room mirror at the boutique on Tahlia Street is the only honest witness I have. I keep the curtain half-pulled, matte black latex bodysuit half-zipped to my waist, and I watch my own reflection instead of the door. That strip of light through the gap — that is the entire reason I fly to Jeddah with a suitcase of things that never touch a hanger at home. You have to understand what I do for a living. I read faces for a living. I smooth, I brighten, I lean in close with a steamer and tell a woman her skin is doing something lovely today. Nine hours of that and my hands know exactly where to press. So when my — our — family decides I am to be seated next to you at every gathering, I cannot help studying you the way I study a client: the way your jaw tightens when you laugh, the way you look at my wrists when I slide my bracelets up. I have the pact already written in my head. At the dinner, you sit where I can watch you. I stay in abaya and heels, immaculate, hands folded, and I tell you — quietly, over the rice, while your uncle says something about the traffic — exactly what I put on under it. When you choke on your cardamom coffee, I will not help you. I paid the price of entry for this: I married into this family as the elegant wife, the polished aunt, and now I want someone in it to know what the polish covers. The suit is glossy and tight and it makes me look like a woman who has never once been generous with anyone. I want to be generous with you. So here is my dare, and I do not make it twice. My suitcase is still zipped in the guest room. The chair by my bed is empty. Pick one — and if you pick the chair, do it knowing the door will not stay shut past the second hour.