The Book Club Meeting
"She runs a Somali women's book club in Harlesden. He's the author whose book they're discussing—showing up unexpectedly because his aunt is a member. When the book talks about desire and the club gets heated, she finds herself alone with him after."
Tuesday nights are for books.
Eight Somali women crammed into my living room in Harlesden, discussing everything from Nuruddin Farah to romance novels, sometimes both at once.
Tonight's book is "Hargeysa Blues" by Nadif Osman.
A novel about desire and duty and what happens when they collide.
And the author is sitting in my living room.
I didn't invite him.
His aunt Hibo—one of our regular members—brought him without warning.
"He was visiting from Birmingham," she says, like that explains showing up with a minor literary celebrity. "I thought the girls would like to meet him."
The girls are staring at him like he's walked out of his own novel.
Tall. Serious eyes. The kind of handsome that makes you understand why his female characters are always losing their minds.
"I hope I'm not intruding," he says.
"Of course not." I gesture to an empty chair. "We'd love to hear your thoughts."
On his own book. Which we're about to discuss. Including the very explicit scenes.
This is fine.
It's not fine.
The discussion turns to the love scenes. The very detailed love scenes. And now I have to talk about fictional desire while the actual author watches.
"The scene in chapter twelve," Hibo says—his aunt, talking about sex scenes he wrote—"was it based on real experience?"
"Auntie!" He looks horrified.
"What? Writers take from life."
"Some things are imagination." He meets my eyes. "Though imagination often starts with observation."
"Who do you observe?" another member asks.
"People who interest me." He's still looking at me. "People who make me want to understand more."
The meeting ends.
Everyone leaves except Nadif, who's lingering under the pretense of helping clean up.
"I'm sorry about my aunt," he says, stacking cups.
"She's a regular. I'm used to her."
"I'm not used to discussing my sex scenes in front of her."
I laugh despite myself. "That must have been uncomfortable."
"Extremely." He sets down the cups. "But not entirely bad."
"What was good about it?"
"Watching you." He steps closer. "The way you led the discussion. The way you made everyone feel safe to share. The way you blushed during chapter twelve."
"I didn't blush."
"You blushed." He smiles. "I noticed."
I should send him home.
His aunt will wonder where he is. I have work tomorrow. There are a hundred reasons to say goodnight.
"Would you like tea?" I hear myself say.
"I'd like to stay." He closes the distance between us. "For more than tea."
"That's very forward for a literary man."
"I write about desire for a living." His hand finds my waist. "I know what it looks like when someone wants something."
"What do I want?"
"Me." He leans closer. "Tell me I'm wrong."
He's not wrong.
I kiss him in my living room where we discussed his book. Where eight women dissected his words about longing and finally.
"Chapter twelve—" I murmur against his lips.
"What about it?"
"I want to know if you're as good as your characters."
"Only one way to find out."
He is.
Better, even. Writers observe, and he's observed everything—how I respond to touch, what makes me gasp, where to focus.
"Nadif—"
"Tell me—" He kisses down my body. "Tell me what you want and I'll write it on your skin."
"That's very purple—"
"I'm a writer." He parts my thighs. "Purple is what we do."
His tongue finds me.
All thoughts of prose disappear.
He makes me come with literary precision.
Building tension. Creating rhythm. Reaching a climax that leaves me breathless.
"That should be in a book—"
"It might be." He rises over me. "May I?"
"Chapter twelve—"
"Better than chapter twelve."
He pushes inside.
We write our own story that night.
No metaphors. No careful prose. Just bodies and sounds and the raw reality of two people who wanted something and took it.
"Yes—there—"
"You feel like—"
"Don't turn this into a novel—"
"Too late." He speeds up. "I'm already writing you in my head."
I come with him quoting his own book in my ear.
He follows, and we collapse into something that feels like the beginning of a very long chapter.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"I go back to Birmingham."
"That's far."
"Not that far." He pulls me close. "Close enough for weekends. For book clubs. For research."
"Research?"
"My next novel needs authenticity." He kisses my forehead. "I might need to conduct extensive... interviews."
"That's a terrible line."
"Writers are allowed terrible lines." He grins. "Will you let me keep writing you?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means I want to see you again. And again. Until we've filled a whole book's worth of nights."
We fill more than one book.
He visits every weekend. I visit Birmingham. We read to each other in bed—his work, other works, everything that makes us think and feel.
"I'm writing a character based on you," he tells me a year later.
"Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Flattered." He shows me the manuscript. "She's the best thing I've ever written."
I read the dedication page.
To A—who made chapter twelve look amateur.
"I'm going to kill you."
"You're going to marry me."
He pulls out a ring.
"That's not how proposals work."
"Writers make their own rules." He opens the box. "What do you say?"
I say yes.
And our story keeps going.
One chapter at a time.