Denver Halal Butcher

Halimo's Halal Meats is the only real butcher in Aurora.

Every Somali family, every Ethiopian restaurant, every Muslim household—they all come to her. She's been slicing meat for twenty years.

I need goat for a party.

"How many people?"

"Fifty."

"Ilaahay—big party." She examines her stock. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds of butcher expertise. Ebony skin, strong arms, apron stained with work. "I'll need to order fresh. Come back Thursday."

"Mahadsnid."

"Don't thank me. Thank the goat."

I come back Thursday.

She's working alone. Knife flashing, meat separating with precision that comes from decades of practice.

"Your order is ready." She wraps package after package. "Good cuts. The goat was healthy."

"You can tell?"

"Haa." She looks up. "Sick animals cut different. Something in the tissue. Twenty years of this—you learn."

"That's incredible."

"That's work." She finishes wrapping. "Anything else?"

"How do I cook it?"

"You don't know how to cook goat?" She laughs. "American Somali. All the blood, none of the skills."

"Then teach me."

She teaches me.

Every week, I come for a "lesson"—how to marinate, how to season, how to slow-cook until the meat falls off the bone.

"You're getting better," she says one evening.

"Good teacher."

"Waas." But she's pleased. "My husband used to say I cook better than I cut. He was wrong. I do both perfectly."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. Heart attack. Ten years ago." She keeps cutting—chop, chop, chop. "Left me this shop and nothing else. I've been cutting meat alone ever since."

"That sounds lonely."

"Meat doesn't judge. Meat doesn't leave." She looks at me. "Meat is reliable."

"People can be reliable too."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

"Come to the back room."

The shop is closed. The display cases empty.

"I have a special cut. Something I don't sell to everyone."

"What is it?"

"The best part of the goat." Her eyes hold something new. "For the right person."

The back room is cold.

Meat hanging, tools lined up, the smell of iron and spice.

"This is where I work alone," she says. "Where no one sees me."

"I see you."

"Haa." She removes her apron. "You do."

Her body is built for strength.

Arms thick from cutting, shoulders broad from carrying. Ebony skin marked with the occasional scar. She's powerful in a way that makes me ache.

"Ten years," she whispers. "Ten years of handling meat. Never being handled."

"Let me handle you."

I worship the butcher.

My hands learn her body like a new cut—where to press, where to be gentle. She gasps as I undress her.

"Ten years—" She's trembling. "I've forgotten tenderness—"

"You're about to remember."

I lay her down on a clean prep table.

Her body is magnificent—heavy breasts, soft belly, thick thighs. Built for nourishment.

I spread her thick thighs.

Taste her like prime meat.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—ten years of cold isolation melting. Her strong hands grip my head.

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

I feast on her until she comes three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"

I strip. She watches with those expert eyes.

"Subhanallah—good cut."

"All for you."

I push inside the butcher.

She screams.

"So good—" Her powerful legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I pound her on the prep table.

Her massive body bounces. The cold room warms with our heat. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"

I release inside her.

We lie on the cool steel.

"The shop opens at six," she murmurs.

"And I'll be here."

"For meat?"

"For you." I pull her close. "The best cut in Denver."

One Year Later

I work at Halimo's now.

Learning to cut, learning to serve.

And every night, after the shop closes, she teaches me other things.

"Macaan," she moans. "My tenderest customer."

The butcher who feeds the community.

The woman who feeds my soul.

Prime selection.