The Henna Evening
"She's the premier Somali henna artist in Minneapolis. The thick widow stays late after his sister's wedding to pack up. When he helps her, her skilled hands show him what else they can do. Her art isn't the only thing that leaves marks."
The wedding ends at midnight.
My sister Fardowsa is married now, her hands and feet covered in intricate henna designs. The ballroom empties. Only the cleanup remains.
And Nasro, the henna artist.
Fifty-two years old. A widow. The most sought-after xannaanaad in Minneapolis.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of artistic genius. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Hands that create beauty.
"Mahadsnid for your work," I tell her. "My sister looked beautiful."
"It's what I do." She packs her cones. "Beauty for others. Nothing for myself."
"That's not true."
"Wallahi, it is." She looks at me. "Seven years since my husband. Seven years of making brides beautiful. And no one sees me."
"I see you."
I help her pack.
Henna cones. Design books. The tools of her trade.
"Why are you still here?" she asks.
"To help."
"Most young men would be chasing bridesmaids."
"I'm not most young men."
She sets down her bag.
Crosses to me.
"I've watched you tonight," she says quietly. "The way you helped your mother. Your grandmother. The way you notice things others miss."
"I notice you."
"An old, fat henna artist?"
"A beautiful woman."
She inhales sharply.
"My car is in the parking garage. No one will see us leave."
"Where are we going?"
"My studio." She takes my hand. "Let me draw on you."
Her studio is small.
Henna cones everywhere. Reference designs on the walls.
"Give me your arm," she says.
I extend it.
She begins to draw—intricate patterns, her skilled hands moving with practiced precision.
"You're beautiful when you work," I say.
"Wallahi, don't—"
"I mean it."
She stops drawing.
Looks up at me.
"Show me you mean it."
I kiss the henna artist.
Among her designs. Her cones. Her art.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Everything beautiful is."
I pull her to the small couch.
Her body is thick and warm.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of an artist.
"Seven years," she whispers. "No one has touched me."
"I'll touch every inch."
I worship her.
My mouth traces her body like henna on skin.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "Since my husband—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Seven years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Drawing pleasure.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the henna artist.
In her studio. Surrounded by designs.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Nasro.
Fill her where seven years of nothing lived.
We lie tangled on the couch.
"Macaan," she breathes. "You've left marks on me too."
"Better than henna?"
"Deeper." She kisses me. "Much deeper."
One Year Later
I help her at every wedding now.
Setting up. Packing up. The work no one sees.
And after—
"Macaan," she moans. "My canvas."
Her henna fades in weeks.
What we have doesn't fade at all.