The Money Transfer Girl
"He sends money to his family in Hargeisa every month. She's the girl behind the counter at the Somali hawala. They've been flirting through bulletproof glass for a year. When the shop closes and she's counting cash, he's still there."
Every Friday, I wire $500 to Hargeisa.
Same time. Same hawala. Same girl behind the bulletproof glass.
Her name is Sahra. She's twenty-five, born in Tower Hamlets, never been to Somalia. But she speaks Somali fluently, counts money faster than anyone I've ever seen, and has a smile that makes me forget why I walked in.
"Bashir." She doesn't look up from her counting. "You're early."
"Traffic was good."
"Traffic is never good. You left early." Now she looks up, and there it is—that smile. "Missing me already?"
"Maybe."
She stamps my paperwork. "Same amount? Same recipient?"
"Same everything."
Our fingers brush through the slot in the glass. Neither of us pulls away.
"One day," she says, "you're going to tell me what's in Hargeisa that costs $500 a month."
"One day." I hold her gaze. "One day I'll tell you everything."
I've been coming here for a year.
Fifty-two Fridays. Fifty-two chances to talk to her through glass that makes everything feel safe and nothing feel close enough.
I know her now—the way you know someone through fragments. Her father owns the shop. Her mother works the day shift. She's studying accounting at Queen Mary because her father says the shop needs someone who understands real numbers, not just counting cash.
She knows me too. Knows I work construction in Stratford. Knows I send money to the grandmother who raised me after my parents died in the civil war. Knows I live alone in a bedsit in Plaistow and eat too much takeaway.
"You need a wife," she told me once. "Someone to cook for you."
"You offering?"
She laughed and handed me my receipt through the glass.
But I saw her blush.
Tonight, the shop closes early.
Friday prayer—her father and brother leave at 12:45 to make it to the mosque on time. She stays to count the weekend's take, prepare the Monday deposits, lock everything up.
Usually, I'm gone by then.
Not tonight.
"Shop's closing," she calls out, not looking up from her stack of twenties.
"I know."
"You need to go."
"I know."
She finally looks up. I'm standing at the glass, not moving.
"Bashir—"
"Have dinner with me."
"I'm working."
"After working."
"My father—"
"Isn't here." I put my hand on the glass. "One dinner, Sahra. One hour where there's nothing between us."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she hits a button under the counter, and the bulletproof door beside her window clicks open.
"Come in."
The back room smells like money.
Stacks of currency from everywhere—pounds, dollars, euros. A counting machine clicks in the corner. The security camera blinks red, but Sahra reaches up and tilts it toward the ceiling.
"My father reviews the tapes on Mondays. He won't see this."
"See what?"
She walks toward me, heels clicking on the concrete floor. She's wearing the abaya she always wears for work, but underneath—underneath I can see something different. Something that isn't for customers.
"This."
She kisses me.
A year of waiting explodes in that kiss.
I grab her waist, pull her against me, feel her body through the fabric. She's soft everywhere—hips, breasts, belly—and she presses into me like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
"Bashir—"
"Tell me to stop."
"No." She works at my belt. "I've been thinking about this for months. Every Friday, watching you through the glass, wondering what your hands feel like."
"Now you know."
I lift her onto the counting table. The stacks of money scatter, but she doesn't care—she's pulling at my shirt, kissing my neck, wrapping her legs around me.
"Here—now—"
"Someone could come back—"
"I don't care." She pulls my hand under her abaya. "I'm tired of the glass, Bashir. I'm tired of wanting something I can't touch."
She's wet. Dripping. My fingers slide into her easily, and she moans against my shoulder.
"Yes—finally—"
I take my time with her.
A year of patience deserves a year of attention. I work her with my fingers until she's shaking, then drop to my knees and work her with my tongue. The money crinkles under her as she writhes, stacks of cash falling to the floor.
"Bashir—I'm going to—"
I suck her clit, curl my fingers, and feel her explode.
She screams. Grabs my head. Rides my face through an orgasm that leaves her trembling.
"Oh God—oh God—"
I stand, kiss her, let her taste herself.
"Better than the glass?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
I push inside her on a bed of money.
Literally—there's at least ten thousand pounds under us, maybe more. She's tight, hot, her body gripping me as I fill her completely.
"Yes—yes—"
I start to move.
The counting machine falls off the table. A stack of euros scatters across the floor. Neither of us cares—we're too lost in each other, too desperate, too hungry.
"Harder—"
I give her harder.
The table slams against the wall. The security camera watches us, tilted but not blind. Tomorrow there might be consequences. Tonight there's only this—her body, my body, the wet sound of our joining.
"I'm going to—again—"
"Come for me—" I reach between us, find her clit. "Come on my cock, Sahra—"
She shatters.
Clenches around me so hard I follow, spilling inside her with a groan, filling her while money sticks to our sweat-slicked skin.
We collapse together.
Panting. Laughing. Surrounded by more cash than I'll earn in five years.
"My father's going to kill me," she says.
"Only if he finds out."
"The camera—"
"You tilted it."
"The money—" She looks around at the chaos. "I'm going to be counting this until midnight."
"I'll help."
She raises an eyebrow. "You know how to count hawala deposits?"
"I know how to count." I kiss her forehead. "And I'm not leaving you alone to clean up my mess."
"Our mess."
"Our mess." I smile. "I like the sound of that."
We count until 11 PM.
Every pound, every dollar, every euro. She shows me how the hawala works—the trust system, the family networks, the way money moves across continents without ever crossing a border.
"It's beautiful," she says. "My father built this from nothing. Now people trust us with their families' futures."
"Is that what you want? To run this someday?"
"I don't know what I want." She leans against me. "I know I want more nights like this."
"That can be arranged."
"And I want—" She hesitates. "I want you to meet my father. Properly. Not as a customer."
"Your father, who you said would kill you?"
"He's traditional. But he respects a man who works hard." She looks at me. "And you've been sending money to your grandmother for years without missing a single week. He's noticed that."
"He has?"
"He notices everything." She kisses me. "Be here Monday. After close. I'll introduce you."
Monday comes.
I'm standing outside the shop in my best shirt, palms sweating. Through the bulletproof glass, I see Sahra smile at me.
Her father is behind her. Watching.
The door clicks open.
"Come in," her father says. His voice is grave. "We have things to discuss."
I step inside.
This time, there's no glass between us.
A year later, I marry Sahra in a ceremony her father insists on paying for.
"You take care of your family," he told me that first Monday. "A man who takes care of his family will take care of my daughter."
The wedding is in the function hall above the hawala. Same building where we first touched through glass. Same building where we made love on a pile of money.
That part we don't tell her father.
"You're lucky he likes you," Sahra whispers during the ceremony.
"I'm lucky I found you."
"You found me through a slot in bulletproof glass."
"Best $500 I ever sent."
She laughs.
And I know I'll be walking into that hawala every Friday for the rest of my life.
Only now, there's no glass.
Just us.