The Quran Teacher's Wife | زوجة معلم القرآن
"He comes for Quran lessons with the sheikh. He stays for the sheikh's wife—the woman who serves tea and watches with hungry eyes."
The Quran Teacher's Wife
زوجة معلم القرآن
Sheikh Hassan is the finest Quran teacher in Alexandria.
At twenty-eight, I've decided to finally memorize the holy book properly. My Arabic is good enough—my mother is Egyptian, my father British. But the tajweed, the proper recitation... that requires a master.
The master has a wife.
Her name is Layla.
She's maybe forty-five.
Full-figured, soft-spoken, always bringing us tea during my lessons. Sheikh Hassan ignores her—focused on my pronunciation, my memorization, the proper way to make my throat produce sounds it wasn't built for.
But I notice her.
The way she lingers at the door. The way her eyes find mine when her husband isn't looking. The way her fingers brush against mine when she hands me my tea.
"Again," Sheikh Hassan commands. "Alif-lam-mim."
"Alif-lam-mim."
"The mim is nasalized. Listen." He demonstrates.
Behind him, Layla is dusting a shelf she's already dusted. Her hips sway as she works.
"Alif-lam-mim."
"Better. Now, dhalika-l-kitabu..."
The lessons are twice a week.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, three hours each. Sheikh Hassan never tires—teaching the Quran is his calling, his purpose.
I tire. But not of the Quran.
Of Layla's absence when she's not in the room.
"You're distracted today," the Sheikh observes.
"Asif, Sheikh. I didn't sleep well."
"A clear mind is essential for Quran." He stands. "Rest for ten minutes. Layla will bring tea. Then we continue."
He leaves for prayer.
And Layla arrives.
"You seem troubled," she says, pouring.
"Just tired."
"Not just tired." She sits across from me—closer than proper. "You look at me, Kareem."
"Ana—"
"Don't deny it." Her voice is quiet but firm. "I'm not blind. And neither is Allah. But my husband is."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Then you're a liar as well as a poor reciter."
"I shouldn't have—"
"But you did. And I..." She looks away. "I am lonely, Kareem. Sheikh Hassan is a good man. A holy man. But he has not touched me in years. He says intimacy distracts from Allah."
"That's not—"
"Islamic? No. But he believes it." She meets my eyes again. "And I am forty-five and starving."
"Layla—"
"Come to me. Tonight. Sheikh Hassan leads taraweeh prayers at the mosque until midnight. The door will be unlocked."
"This is haram."
"I know." She stands. "But I have prayed for relief. For someone. And then you came to our door."
She leaves.
I don't concentrate on the Quran for the rest of the lesson.
I shouldn't go.
It's a sin. A betrayal. Sheikh Hassan trusts me. Allah sees everything.
I go.
The door is unlocked, as promised.
She's waiting in the sitting room. No abaya this time—just a housedress that clings to her curves.
"You came."
"I came."
"Alhamdulillah."
She kisses me first.
Pulls me down to her, her mouth soft and desperate. She tastes like cardamom and want.
"Please," she breathes. "Please. I need—"
"I know."
I give her what she needs.
I undress her on her own couch.
The housedress falls away, revealing a body that's been hidden for too long. Breasts that overflow my hands. A belly soft from years and children. Thighs that part for me like I'm the answer to every prayer she's whispered.
"Beautiful," I tell her.
"I'm old."
"You're magnificent."
I worship her the way her husband won't.
Kiss her neck, her shoulders, the curves he's ignored. Take her nipples in my mouth and suck until she's writhing. Trail my tongue down her belly, her thighs, to the place that's been neglected for years.
"Oh—ya Rabbi—"
"Let me hear you."
"I can't—the neighbors—"
"The neighbors don't matter."
She comes against my mouth.
Loud and raw, her hands in my hair, her thighs clamping around my head. I don't stop—I keep going until she comes again, and again.
"Inside me," she gasps. "Please. I need to feel—"
"Feel what?"
"Alive."
I slide inside my Quran teacher's wife.
In his sitting room. While he teaches others to recite Allah's words at the mosque.
She's tight—years of nothing will do that—and wet, and so responsive. Every thrust makes her gasp. Every angle finds something that makes her cry out.
"Yes—aiwa—more—"
"Take it. Take all of it."
"Rabbana—oh God—"
We sin until we're exhausted.
Against the couch. On the floor. Against the wall where Quran verses hang in calligraphy.
"Astaghfirullah," she whispers after.
"Do you regret it?"
"...No. Allah forgive me, but no."
It becomes our routine.
Every night Sheikh Hassan leads prayers, I visit. She feeds me dinner, then feeds other hungers.
I'm still his best student. My tajweed improves. I memorize three juz in two months.
But my heart isn't in the recitation.
It's in her.
"This can't continue," she says one night.
"I know."
"He'll find out eventually. Someone will see you coming."
"I know."
"What do we do?"
"I could talk to him," I offer.
"About what? Divorcing me so you can marry a woman nearly twice your age?"
"You're not—"
"I'm forty-six, Kareem. You're twenty-eight. Even if I divorced him... what life would that be?"
"A real one."
She stares at me.
"You'd actually marry me?"
"In a heartbeat."
"But your family—"
"Will adjust."
"Your career—"
"Means nothing without you."
"This is crazy."
"This is love."
She tells Sheikh Hassan.
Not everything—just that she wants a divorce. She's unhappy. She needs more than he can give.
He doesn't fight it.
"I knew," he says quietly. "I knew you were unfulfilled. I just... couldn't be what you needed. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive."
The iddah period is the longest three months of my life.
I don't visit. Don't call. Give her space.
But on the day it ends, I'm at her door with my mother.
"Assalamu alaikum. I've come to ask for your daughter's hand."
She laughs through her tears.
"I'm older than your mother."
"I don't care."
"The ummah will talk."
"Let them."
We marry in a small ceremony.
Her children—my age, older—attend reluctantly. My parents attend bewildered. Sheikh Hassan doesn't come.
But when I say "I accept" and she says "I accept," none of that matters.
Our first night as husband and wife.
No more sneaking. No more guilt.
"Halal," she whispers as I undress her.
"Finally."
"Make love to me. Properly. Like you've always wanted."
I do.
Five years later
I'm a hafiz now.
Memorized the entire Quran. I teach others, the way Sheikh Hassan taught me.
Sometimes, when I recite, I think of her. How she brought me tea. How she looked at me. How everything sacred and profane got tangled together and made something beautiful.
She sits in the back of my classes.
My wife. My love.
"Beautiful recitation," she says after.
"I had excellent motivation."
She smiles.
Alhamdulillah.
All praise to God.
For everything.
The End.