The Henna Artist
"She does henna for every Somali wedding in North London. He's the groom's brother who sits too close while she works, asks too many questions, and can't stop watching her hands. The night before the wedding, her hands find something else to do."
My hands are my livelihood.
Fifteen years of henna has made them steady, precise, capable of drawing patterns that make brides cry with joy. I've worked a thousand weddings—Somali, Pakistani, Indian, every culture that honors the art of temporary beauty.
Tonight, I'm at a Somali wedding in Finchley.
And the groom's brother won't stop watching me work.
His name is Hamza.
Twenty-seven. Lawyer. Too polished for a family wedding, with his tailored suit and expensive watch. He's supposed to be helping with last-minute preparations, but instead he's pulled a chair next to me and is watching every stroke.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing." He doesn't look away. "The precision is remarkable. How long did it take to learn?"
"Years." I glance at him. "Don't you have groomsman duties?"
"Done." He leans closer. "My brother is nervous. I told him to take a walk. Now I have time."
"Time for what?"
"To watch an artist work."
I try to ignore him. Fail completely.
The bride's hands take three hours.
Three hours of Hamza sitting beside me, asking questions, making observations that are too insightful for someone who supposedly knows nothing about henna.
"Why that pattern there?"
"It represents fertility." I draw another flower. "Traditional for brides."
"And there? On the wrist?"
"Protection. For the marriage."
"You believe in that? The protection?"
I pause. "I believe in hope. Henna washes off, but the hope... the hope stays."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "I'd like to commission you."
"For what? You're not getting married."
"For me." He holds up his hands. "Something small. Just to see what it feels like."
"Men don't usually—"
"I'm not usual." He smiles. "You've probably noticed."
The wedding continues around us.
Music, dancing, the controlled chaos of two hundred guests celebrating. I finish the bride, start on the bridesmaids, and all the while, Hamza waits.
At midnight, when the last cousin is decorated and the party is winding down, he finds me packing up.
"You promised me something."
"I didn't promise—"
"You didn't say no." He sits across from me. Extends his hands. "Something small. A memory of tonight."
I shouldn't. He's a guest, not a client. This is blurring lines I usually keep sharp.
But his hands are beautiful—long fingers, clean nails, the hands of someone who works with his mind. And he's looking at me with an intensity that makes my own hands shake.
"Something small," I agree.
I draw on his palms.
Not traditional patterns—something freeform, instinctive. Lines that curve and twist, that seem to follow the creases of his skin.
"What does this mean?" he asks.
"I don't know yet." My voice is barely a whisper. "Sometimes the art tells me what it wants."
"And right now? What does it want?"
I look up. Our faces are inches apart. The ballroom is nearly empty, the lights dimmed, the music soft.
"I think," I say carefully, "it wants to keep going."
He closes his hands around mine.
We find an empty room.
A storage space off the main hall, full of stacked chairs and folding tables. Not romantic. Not planned. But private.
"This is—" I start.
"Unexpected." He pulls me closer. "Is that okay?"
"I don't do this. Pick up men at weddings."
"I don't get picked up at weddings." He cups my face with hands still damp with henna. "But something about you—about watching you create all night—"
"What about it?"
"Made me want to know what those hands feel like on me." He kisses me softly. "Not art. Just you."
My hands have been careful all night.
Precise. Controlled. Now they're anything but.
I push his jacket off. Unbutton his shirt. Feel the warmth of his skin, so different from the cold hands I've been decorating.
"Ifrah—"
"Don't talk." I kiss down his chest. "Let me work."
I use my hands. My mouth. My whole body to discover him, the way I discover a pattern—slowly, thoroughly, following the lines until they make sense.
"This is—you're—"
"Shh."
I take him in my mouth.
He groans, grabs the back of my head, but gently—like he knows my hands are precious, my mouth a tool I need for my work.
"I can't—if you keep—"
I don't stop.
I bring him to the edge, then pull back.
"Please—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You." He pulls me up. "All of you."
He takes me against stacked chairs.
Not graceful. Not artistic. Raw and desperate, his hands gripping my hips while I wrap my legs around him.
"Yes—Hamza—"
"You feel incredible—"
I feel alive. Like all the precision I pour into my work has been building to this—this moment of pure chaos, of letting go.
"Faster—"
He gives me faster.
The chairs rattle. Someone might hear. I don't care. All I care about is the feeling building inside me, the pressure about to break.
"I'm going to—"
"With me—" He reaches between us. "Come with me, Ifrah—"
I shatter.
He follows.
We collapse into each other, breathing hard, surrounded by wedding furniture and the faint smell of henna paste.
After, we find our clothes.
"I should get back," he says. "My brother—"
"Your brother is married now." I fix my hijab. "He doesn't need you."
"And you?"
I look at him. This impulsive stranger who watched me work and wanted to understand.
"I don't need anyone." I take his hand—the one with henna still drying. "But I might want to see you again."
"When?"
"When this washes off." I trace the pattern. "Come find me. We'll see if you still want to then."
"I'll want to."
"How do you know?"
"Because art like yours—" he kisses my decorated hand, "—isn't something you experience once and forget."
He finds me ten days later.
The henna is gone, but he remembers every line.
"I want another one," he says at my studio door.
"Another design?"
"Another night." He holds up his bare hands. "I've been thinking about your hands for ten days. I need to feel them again."
I pull him inside.
Close the door.
Put my hands exactly where he wants them.
A year later, I do henna for our own wedding.
My hands shake as I draw on my own skin. Hamza watches from across the room—watching me create, watching me become his.
"What does it mean?" he asks, like he asked that first night.
"Everything." I look at the patterns climbing my arms. "It means everything."
The henna washes off.
But we don't.