‘Asr

Menos, a thin, rat tail of a man, glared at the hijabi, arms across his chest. He wore the same expensive tunic every day, thinking it made him look important, but deep down he was as dirt poor as everyone else in Bethlehem these days. He kept glancing at the altar to Zeus and Athena in the back of his stall, making sure the lamp was still lit.

“It’s a sizable hole, Menos, what do you expect me to do?” Siroun demanded, her Armenian accent woven through the second-hand Greek she was speaking. She knew he was quietly judging her because of it. Not like there was anything she could do about it. Her Arabic or Hebrew wasn’t any better.

“It’s the 25th of December. If it were any other day, I might have a different mind about it.”

“So what do I do in the meantime?”

Menos shrugged. “What do you do with any other immodesty?” 

“Hijab the roof? That is your sensible, shrewd advice? Your Athena would be proud of your wise and tactical mind.”  

The sarcasm that dripped from her voice was so thick that it conjured a hollow smile from the clay merchant known as Menos. “From your mouth to her ear, my conscience is clear. Now,  I am afraid the tap is closed on my free advice. Move along, there are many paying tourists out today.” He waved his hands dismissively.  

Sighing, she moved away from his stall to head down the narrow, yet crowded bazaar. The sound of music and the cacophony of languages were a discordant accompaniment to her sashay. The rhythms alchemized into a peaceful harmony because of her innate resilience.  

Pausing to glance at some coconuts brought in from the latest cargo from somewhere far from here, she caught on the wind a familiar scent of papaya and sweat. Looking around wildly for  the source of it, she caught an unexpected flash of skin from the scent’s source. A niqabi woman lifted her face veil for a brief moment to enjoy the scent of a mango. She then proceeded to give the merchant coin to buy it and then wove her own way down the street. 

“Bismillah…” Siroun prayed. Dropping the coconut, she made her way to the shack with a hole in the roof. Home.

Maghrib

“Did Menos not agree to help with the hole in the roof?” The niqabi woman with the mango greeted as she glanced at the destruction still displayed above her living room. Muttering to herself in Xhosa, she went into the kitchen to put away the items she’d bought.

“Nope, he told me to put a hijab over the hole, in not so many words. You’ll never believe what I saw after talking to him though. While looking at the coconuts that still smelled like the sea, fresh from a cargo hold, I think I caught a hint of oranges too. Must have been The Hazim. Its captain is the only one smart enough to keep oranges in the cargo hold and treat the crew with an ounce of respect.”

“Coconuts! I knew I forgot something!”

“Nkosazana, are you listening to me? I said to guess what I saw after the coconuts”

“I don’t know, what did you see, habibti?”

“This…” Siroun spun the other woman around, opened her niqab, wrapped and tied it around them both, as they stood breast to breast, lips brushing against the same breath. “The most beautiful face in all of Bethlehem, is what I saw. Smelling a mango out in the open where any man can see her smile.”  

Before the other woman could reply, the kiss was closed and minds narrowed to the sole sensation of soft lips.

“I’m not sorry. That mango was worth it.”  Came the bratty reply, between nibbled attempts to kiss her silent again. 

“I’m glad you are home safe. You know how this week can be -- so many tourists. We both should have stayed in, where the only veil we’d need is -- ”

A soft hitch of breath, a gasp, grasping at silence.

“Yes.”

“It’s Maghrib. We should be praying…”

“I am praying, my love. You know I am.”

“Bismillah, oh, your fingers…”

“Halal or Haram?”

“Halal. Very Halal…”

Nkosazana’s dark-skinned hand reached, wrapped to hold them tighter together, as Siroun’s practiced hand navigated the intimate space between them.  Abayas open only to each other, leaning against the kitchen counter, their combined moans crooning in a song of hunger for juices sweeter than any mango. Siroun descended into the sea of cloth, til her mouth was burrowing, parting fragrant folds, whispering Arabic prayers into the other woman’s skin.

“Alhamdulillah,” she praised between kisses and nibbles. “Alhamdulillah, you’re home safe.”