The Bloomington Accountant
"She does taxes for half the Somali businesses in Minneapolis—a thick ebony divorced woman who knows everyone's financial secrets. When he needs help with his books, she offers private consultations. Some numbers are meant to be intimate."
Safia Accounting Services has a waiting list six months long.
Every Somali business owner in the Twin Cities wants her. She's thorough, she's honest, and she knows the IRS codes better than the IRS.
I need her help.
"My restaurant is a mess. Financially."
"Most restaurants are." She looks me over. Fifty-one years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of financial authority. Ebony skin, sharp eyes, glasses perched on her nose. "Bring your books. I'll see what I can do."
Her office is immaculate.
Files organized, receipts sorted, calculators lined up like soldiers.
"You're in trouble," she says after an hour with my books. "Not fatal trouble. But trouble."
"Can you fix it?"
"I can fix anything." She makes notes. "But you need to understand what went wrong. Otherwise, you'll make the same mistakes."
"Teach me."
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I don't have time to teach—"
"I'll pay for your time. Whatever it costs."
She studies me. Minutes pass.
"Tuesday nights. Eight PM. After my regular clients."
She teaches me like I'm a student.
Assets, liabilities, cash flow, depreciation. Concepts I never understood suddenly make sense in her precise explanations.
"You're smart," she says after a few weeks. "Why did you open a restaurant without understanding this?"
"Passion over planning."
"Waas." She clicks her tongue. "Passion is expensive. Planning is profitable."
"Then teach me to plan."
"That's what I'm doing." She leans back. "But there's more to it than numbers."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" She removes her glasses. "Numbers tell stories. Your books tell me you're lonely. You work eighty hours a week. You eat at your own restaurant every night. You have no expenses for entertainment, no travel, nothing personal."
"You see all that?"
"I see everything." She meets my eyes. "I know what loneliness looks like in a spreadsheet."
"Takes one to know one?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"My husband left me for a younger woman. Three years ago. I buried myself in work. Built this business. Forgot how to be anything but an accountant."
"But the numbers—"
"The numbers are cold. Numbers don't hold you at night."
"What do you want?"
"Tonight? I want to forget about numbers."
I worship the accountant.
Her body is precise like her work—but warm, soft, ebony curves hidden under professional clothes. She gasps as I undress her.
"Three years—" She's trembling. "I've been balancing everyone's books except my own—"
"Let me balance you."
I kiss down her body.
Past her breasts—heavy, professional, aching to be unprofessional. Past her soft belly covered with years of desk work. She spreads her thick thighs.
"No one has—" She gasps as my mouth finds her. "ALLA—"
I lick her through two orgasms. Her screams are measured at first, then wild.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my clothes. "Ku soo gal—"
I strip. She sees me and her accountant's mind goes blank.
"Subhanallah—the ratio of that—"
"Stop calculating."
I lay her back on her desk.
I push inside the accountant.
She cries out—three years of carefully maintained composure breaking.
"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—"
I pound her among spreadsheets and tax returns.
Her massive body bounces on the desk. She comes twice, three times.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me with something that isn't numbers—"
I explode inside her.
We lie tangled among financial documents.
"This is unprofessional," she murmurs.
"Are you going to bill me for this?"
"Ilaahay." She laughs. "This one's on the house."
Tax Season
She files my taxes perfectly.
My restaurant is profitable now. My books are clean.
But every Tuesday night, we forget about numbers.
"Macaan," she moans as I fill her. "My sweet, sweet client."
The accountant who fixed my finances.
The woman who fixed my heart.
Some assets can't be measured.