Aroos Aftermath
"Aroos is the Somali word for wedding. The morning after his friend's celebration, he finds the bride's thick mother alone, cleaning up the venue. She's been watching him all night. Now there's no one to watch them back."
The aroos ended at three AM.
Six hundred guests. A ballroom dripping with Somali flags. Enough food to feed a village. My best friend Mustafa married his college sweetheart, and the whole community turned out to celebrate.
Now it's seven AM.
The ballroom is a disaster. Tables overturned. Decorations wilting. The smell of cold bariis and stale perfume.
And in the middle of it all—Mustafa's mother-in-law.
"Warya!" She sees me stumble in. "What are you doing here?"
"I left my jacket."
"At seven in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep."
Her name is Xaawo. Forty-eight years old. The bride's mother. She'd spent the entire wedding directing traffic—commanding waiters, scolding children, making sure her daughter's perfect day stayed perfect.
Now she's alone.
And she's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of Somali matriarch. Wide hips that strained against her dirac all night. Heavy breasts that swayed when she danced. A round, pretty face lined with exhaustion.
"Help me clean," she says. It's not a request. "Everyone else is asleep."
"Where's your husband?"
"Snoring in the hotel room. He was useless all night—he'll be useless all morning too."
I grab a garbage bag.
We work in silence.
The sun rises through the ballroom windows.
We've made progress—tables righted, trash collected, the worst of the mess contained. Xaawo sits heavily in a chair, fanning herself.
"I'm too old for this," she mutters.
"You don't look old."
She laughs—surprised.
"Wallahi, you lie. I look like xaar—garbage."
"You look beautiful."
She goes still.
"You've been looking at me all night," she says slowly. "I saw you. During the dances. During the speeches."
"I was looking at everyone."
"Not like that." She stands. Crosses to me. "You were looking at me. Like—"
"Like what?"
"Like I was the bride."
The air changes.
We're alone in a ballroom that held six hundred people. The sun paints everything gold.
"I haven't been looked at like that in years," she says quietly. "My husband doesn't see me anymore. Not since I got—" She gestures at her body. "Big."
"His loss."
"Wallahi?"
"You're the most beautiful woman I saw all night."
"More beautiful than my daughter? On her wedding day?"
"Your daughter is a child." I step closer. "You're a woman."
She inhales sharply.
She kisses me.
In the ballroom where her daughter just got married. With the decorations still hanging. With her husband asleep two floors up.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Everything—"
"—good is. I know." She grips my shirt. "My daughter is married now. My duty is done. Now I want something for me."
"What do you want?"
"You." She pulls me toward the bridal suite entrance. "The suite is empty. My daughter has her own room. Let me have this. One morning. One xaaraan morning."
I follow.
The bridal suite is enormous.
White sheets. Flower petals on the bed. Everything prepared for a wedding night that already happened.
"My daughter consummated her marriage here," Xaawo says. "Now I'll commit sin in the same place."
She reaches for her dirac.
It falls.
Underneath, she wears white—in honor of the wedding—but nothing bridal about what she reveals. Heavy breasts sagging in a cotton bra. Belly round and soft. Hips wide, thighs thick.
"I'm disgusting—"
"You're perfect."
I push her onto the bed where her daughter became a wife.
I worship the mother of the bride.
My mouth traces her body—every curve, every roll. She gasps and moans, sounds she probably hasn't made in decades.
"No one—" She's shaking. "My husband never—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams into a pillow.
"ILAAHAY—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. On the bridal sheets. Where her daughter lay last night.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—on these sheets—in this bed—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "My husband is nothing—"
"This isn't about your husband."
"No." She strokes me. "This is about me. Finally. After twenty-five years."
I push her onto her back.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready since I saw you walk into the aroos."
I thrust inside.
She screams into the pillow.
The bridal bed creaks beneath us. Her walls grip me—tight, wet, desperate.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the bride's mother.
On the wedding sheets. In the bridal suite. The morning after her daughter's aroos.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Make this night mine too—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams into the pillow, muffling sounds that would wake the whole hotel.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—on my daughter's wedding bed—"
I let go.
I flood the mother of the bride.
Stain the sheets where her daughter consummated her marriage. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "The best gift I've gotten from this wedding."
"Your husband will wonder where you are."
"Let him wonder." She strokes my face. "He doesn't deserve explanations. He doesn't deserve me."
"And I do?"
"You see me." She pulls me for a kiss. "That's worth more than twenty-five years of marriage."
We clean up before anyone wakes.
The bridal suite looks untouched. The sheets are changed. No evidence remains.
At breakfast, I shake hands with her husband. Congratulate the bride. Play the role of wedding guest.
Xaawo smiles at me across the table.
Under it, her foot traces up my leg.
Six Months Later
The newlyweds live in Seattle now.
Xaawo's husband travels for business—always has, always will.
And when he's gone, she calls me.
"Aroos aftermath," she whispers every time. "My wedding night with you."
I help her celebrate.
Again and again.