Dallas Car Dealership

Star Auto is where Somalis buy cars.

Shukri has been selling for eighteen years. No pressure, fair prices, honest about everything. The Somali community trusts her completely.

I need a minivan.

"Family?" She walks me through the lot. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of sales expertise without the sleaze. Ebony skin, professional dress, comfortable shoes for walking.

"Nieces and nephews. I do a lot of driving."

"Mashallah—good uncle." She stops at a Honda. "This one has the best safety ratings. Reliable. Good mileage."

"What do you drive?"

"A ten-year-old Camry. Salespeople know which cars last."

The sale is easy.

Fair price, no surprises, exactly what I needed. I should be done with her.

I'm not.

"Can I take you to lunch? To thank you?"

"Thank me for doing my job?"

"For doing it well."

"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I don't date customers."

"Then I'll wait until my warranty expires."

She laughs—surprised, genuine.

"Lunch. Just lunch."

Lunch becomes a habit.

Every few weeks, I find reasons to come to the dealership. Questions about the van. Maintenance advice. Flimsy excuses.

"You're here again," she says one afternoon.

"Oil change reminder."

"Your van is six months old. It doesn't need oil yet." She crosses her arms. "What do you actually need?"

"Your company."

"Waas." But she sits down. "I'm not good company."

"You're the best company."

"My husband sold cars too."

We're in her office after hours. The dealership is closed.

"Different lot, same business. We met at a conference. Married within a year." She straightens papers. "He cheated with a customer. Sold her a Lexus and his marriage."

"That's disgusting."

"That's men in sales." She looks at me. "No offense."

"None taken. I'm not in sales."

"No. You're in—what?"

"IT. Boring, stable, faithful."

"Nothing about you seems boring."

"Come for a test drive."

The lot is dark. The showroom locked.

"Test driving what?"

"Something new." She hands me keys. "A car I've never shown anyone."

We drive out of the city.

Texas highways stretching dark and endless. The car handles perfectly.

"Where are we going?"

"Nowhere." She leans back. "Just driving. I haven't done this in eight years."

"Since your divorce?"

"Since I stopped letting myself feel." She looks out the window. "Cars are safe. You control them. People are dangerous."

"I'm not dangerous."

"Everyone says that." She turns to me. "But you might be the first one who means it."

I park at an overlook.

Texas stars above. The city distant below.

"Eight years," she whispers. "Eight years of selling dreams to others. Never buying my own."

"What's your dream?"

"Being touched without being used." Her voice cracks. "Being wanted for more than what I can provide."

"I want you."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

I worship the saleswoman.

In the backseat of a car she knows inside and out. Her body is the best model—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly. Top of the line.

"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "No trade-ins—"

"Tonight you're priceless."

The backseat is cramped.

But we make it work. Her body spreads across the leather seats. I spread her thick thighs.

Test drive her pleasure.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—the car windows fogging. Her hands grip the headrest.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I drive her to the edge three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—close the deal—"

I position myself.

"Subhanallah—"

"Best offer."

I push inside the saleswoman.

She screams.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me in the cramped space. "Don't stop—"

I make the sale.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Sign here—"

I finalize inside her.

We lie in the backseat.

Texas stars still above.

"Best test drive ever," she murmurs.

"I'll take it."

"The car?"

"Everything." I kiss her. "You. This. All of it."

One Year Later

I don't need another car.

I keep coming to the dealership anyway.

"Macaan," she moans in her office after closing. "My favorite customer."

The saleswoman who never pushes.

The woman I pulled close.

Sold.