The Friday Prayer
"After Jummah prayers, the mosque empties. But the thick widow who organizes the women's section stays to clean. He stays to help. In the empty prayer hall, they find a different kind of devotion. Some worship requires privacy."
Jummah ends at two.
The faithful scatter, returning to work and life. The mosque empties.
But Hibo stays.
Fifty years old. A widow. She cleans the women's section every Friday, has for ten years since her husband passed.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of quiet devotion. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A face that knows prayer and loss equally.
I stay to help.
"Mahadsnid," she says. "Most people just leave."
"I'm not most people."
We clean in silence.
Straightening prayer rugs. Collecting forgotten items. The work no one notices.
"Why do you stay?" she asks eventually.
"To help."
"Wallahi?" She stops sweeping. "Or to see me?"
I've been caught.
"Both."
"My husband used to help me," she says quietly. "Every Friday. Then one Friday, he didn't come home. Heart attack. Right after prayer."
"I'm sorry."
"Allah's will." She looks at me. "Ten years I've been alone. Ten years of cleaning this mosque. No one ever offers to help."
"I'm offering."
"More than help?"
"Whatever you need."
She's silent for a long moment.
Then she takes my hand.
Leads me to the storage room.
"This is xaaraan," she whispers. "In the house of Allah—"
"Allah sees our loneliness." I touch her face. "Maybe He sent me."
"Blasphemy."
"Truth."
I kiss her.
In the mosque storage room, she undresses.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body she covers for prayer.
"Ten years," she says. "No one has seen me."
"I see you."
I worship her among the prayer supplies.
My mouth traces her body.
"No one has—" She gasps. "Since my husband—"
I taste her.
She clamps a hand over her mouth.
"ILAAHAY!" Muffled in Allah's house. "ALLA—"
"Coming—" She's shaking.
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She bites her lip to stay silent.
"Alla—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the mosque cleaner.
In the storage room. After prayers.
"Dhakhso—faster—"
I pound her softly.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Hibo.
Fill her where ten years of emptiness lived.
We lie tangled together, the silence holy.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Answered prayer."
"Every Friday?"
"Every Friday." She kisses me. "After everyone leaves."
One Year Later
I pray every Friday now.
Then I stay.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My devotion."
Some worship happens in prayer halls.
Some worship happens in storage rooms.
Both are sacred.