The Embroidery Lesson
"Leila learns traditional Palestinian embroidery from her mother's friend—and discovers that Imm Rami's teachings extend far beyond thread and needle."
The Embroidery Lesson
Imm Rami's hands moved like water, the needle dancing through fabric, leaving trails of red and green in its wake. Leila watched, mesmerized, her own clumsy stitches forgotten.
"Irkizi," Imm Rami chided gently. Focus. "Your mother sent you here to learn, not to stare."
"Sorry, khalto." Aunt. "Your work is just... beautiful."
"It's not beauty for its own sake." Imm Rami held up the half-finished design—a pattern Leila didn't recognize. "Every stitch tells a story. This one is from Jaffa, where my mother was born. When we embroider, we preserve what they tried to erase."
Leila looked down at her own work—a simple border, crooked and uneven. "I'm terrible at this."
"You're impatient. It's not the same thing." Imm Rami set down her needle, moving to sit beside Leila on the low couch. "Here. Let me guide your hands."
The touch was innocent at first—Imm Rami's fingers correcting her grip, adjusting the angle of the needle. But as the afternoon light slanted through the windows, something shifted.
"You're tense," Imm Rami observed. "Embroidery requires softness. You must let the thread speak to you."
"I don't know how."
"Close your eyes."
Leila obeyed. She felt Imm Rami move behind her, warm breath on her neck, hands covering hers on the fabric.
"Feel the weave," Imm Rami murmured. "The spaces between threads. The tension. Find where the needle wants to go."
The instruction was practical, but Leila's heart raced. She'd always found Imm Rami beautiful—dark eyes, silver-streaked hair, curves that defied her fifty years. Now, with the older woman pressed against her back, those observations felt dangerous.
"Khalto—"
"Shh. Just feel."
The lessons continued weekly. Each session brought them closer—lingering touches, loaded glances, conversations that wandered from embroidery to life, to loneliness.
"My husband doesn't see me anymore," Imm Rami confessed one evening, her hands still moving through the silk. "Twenty-five years, and I'm invisible."
"You're not invisible." Leila's voice was thick. "You're the most visible person I know."
"Visible to whom?"
"To me."
Imm Rami's needle paused. When she looked up, her eyes held something vast and terrifying.
"Leila. Binti. You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." Leila set down her own work. "I've known since the first lesson. Maybe before."
"This isn't—we can't—"
"I know." Leila moved closer. "Tell me to stop. Tell me I'm imagining things. Tell me you don't lie awake thinking about me the way I think about you."
Imm Rami's breath caught. "Allah yistor." God protect us.
"Is that a no?"
"It should be."
"But it isn't?"
Their first kiss tasted of cardamom tea and forbidden longing. Imm Rami's lips were soft, hesitant, then demanding. She pulled Leila close with a strength that surprised them both.
"Majnouna," she breathed against Leila's mouth. Crazy. "Inti w ana, majnounat."
"Then be crazy with me."
They stumbled to the bedroom—Imm Rami's private space, fragrant with jasmine, embroidered pillows scattered across silk sheets. Leila had never been with a woman before, but her hands knew what to do, guided by instinct and hunger.
"Let me see you," she pleaded, undressing the older woman. "Please, khalto—"
"Don't call me that. Not now." Imm Rami's hands were busy with Leila's buttons. "Call me Samira. My name is Samira."
"Samira."
They made love slowly, thoroughly—hands and mouths learning each other's landscapes. Samira's body was lush and responsive, crying out at every touch. Leila worshipped her like the masterpiece she was.
"Ahhh—there—yes—" Samira's back arched as Leila's tongue found her center. "Ya Allah, Leila—"
"Tell me what you need."
"More—everything—don't stop—"
Leila didn't stop. She brought Samira to the edge again and again, building patterns of pleasure as intricate as any embroidery. When Samira finally shattered, her cry echoed off the ancient walls.
Then it was Leila's turn to receive—Samira's experienced hands and clever mouth showing her pleasures she'd only imagined. They traded roles until the moon rose, until they lay tangled in silk and sweat, limbs intertwined.
"What happens now?" Leila asked, tracing the pattern on the nearest pillow.
"I don't know." Samira kissed her hair. "This can't become public. My family, your mother—"
"I don't care about public. I care about this room. This moment. You."
"Binti—"
"Your lover. Your student. Whatever you need me to be." Leila raised her head. "Just don't send me away."
Samira's eyes glistened. "Mish 'adra." I can't.
"Can't send me away or can't keep me?"
"Both." A sad smile. "Ana ma'ik." I'm with you. "Khalas." It's done.
The embroidery lay forgotten on its frame, the story half-told. But a new pattern was emerging—one stitched in secret, in stolen moments, in the language of women who found each other against all odds.
And Leila would guard it with her life.