Driving dilemma (Part 6)

By Virginia Pasalo

 

MERCEDES closed the door behind her and gave a sigh of relief. It was a relief that also brought anxiety because she knew that Rashid was attracted to her, and she was beginning to like him, he was different from his friends, who only talked about football. Like them, Rashid also loves football, but above all else, he loved poetry. Once, she saw a sheet of paper on the floor, and Rashid beat her into picking it up saying,

“It is a poem, a poem for my wife, for a little misunderstanding.”

“Oh, how nice, Sir. I wish I understood the poem. Are you saying sorry?”

“No, the poem is about the bird that cannot carry my message.”

He was going to say something else, but Ayesha came in and he folded the piece of paper and thrust it inside his pocket. Mercedes continued to clean up and prepared for Ayesha’s trip to Mecca, where Ayesha’s family lives. She was particularly drawn to the history of Mecca, regarded as the holiest city in Islam, and where all able-bodied Muslims were required to go on a pilgrimage on the twelfth Muslim lunar month. Home to approximately 2 million, the population expanded exponentially during the hajj (pilgrimage). She wanted to see the place too someday, when non-Muslims are allowed to enter the city. That was a year ago, but her fascination with the holy city never left her.

For now, she has to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Ayesha is not around to spend time with the kids. But she could not sleep. The night was full of a thousand eyes, the eyes of Rashid, blue green eyes, deep green eyes, penetrating her own iris. She turned and turned, put a pillow on her head, closed her eyes, but the green dominated her whole being that she started to burn in the coolness of bluegreen.

“No!”, she exclaimed. But the eyes softly locked its gaze on hers.

“Sorry, I followed you.“

It was not a dream. Rashid was inside her room, and his hairy breast was pressing on hers. She pushed him away, but Rashid pressed his lips to her forehead, and travelled to her checks, and landing on her mouth. She tasted something warm and pungent on his mouth, the taster of cardamom.

“No, Sir, please!”, she put her arms on top of her breast.

Rashid held her hands and pushed them on her side, and kissed her nipples, the same nipples that shrank into dots in the constellation of Ramon’s dream, now slowly leaving their place from the Big Dipper to venture into Arabian Nights.

“No, no, no…”

But her body said yes. It was an uncontrolled willingness to be possessed, to possess, and get lost.

She was lost. Lost in the mesmerizing murmur of a poet, whose bird finally carried his message to the woman who was not his wife.

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