The San Diego Surprise

San Diego is sunshine and palm trees.

A world away from Minneapolis winters. My mother moved here five years ago—better weather, she said. Easier on her joints.

What she didn't mention was the neighbor.

Hodan Farah lives in the apartment next door. Forty-six years old. Divorced—her husband left for a younger woman three years ago. She helps my mother with everything: groceries, appointments, company.

She's thick.

Two hundred and thirty pounds of California Somali. Wide hips in tight jeans—she dresses American here. Heavy breasts beneath t-shirts. A round face tanned by the eternal San Diego sun.

"Soo dhawow!" She greets me when I arrive. "Your hooyo talks about you constantly."

"Mahadsnid, Hodan."

"She's at her doctor's appointment. Won't be back for hours." She pauses. "Do you want to wait at my place? It's cooler."

I follow her.

I tell myself it's just to escape the heat.

Her apartment is modest.

Clean and simple, decorated with Somali touches. Photos of the homeland. A prayer rug by the window.

"Shaah?" she offers.

"Haa. Mahadsnid."

We drink tea. We talk. About San Diego, about Minneapolis, about the loneliness of the Somali diaspora.

"Your mother saved me," she admits. "After my divorce, I was falling apart. She took me under her wing."

"That's hooyo."

"She talks about you constantly. Her successful son. Her handsome son." Hodan looks at me. "She wasn't wrong."

"About which part?"

"Both."

The air shifts.

"My ex-husband said I was too fat," she says suddenly. "Too old. That's why he left for that twenty-year-old."

"He was a fool."

"Wallahi?"

"You're beautiful."

She sets down her cup.

"Don't say things you don't mean."

"I mean it." I stand. Cross to her. "You're the most beautiful woman in this building."

"Your mother lives here."

"My mother is my mother. You're—"

"What?"

"Something else entirely."

I kiss her.

She freezes.

Then melts.

"This is xaaraan," she gasps against my mouth. "Your mother—my neighbor—"

"Doesn't have to know."

"But I'll know. Every time I see her, I'll think—"

"Think about what makes you happy." I grip her hips. "For once."

She doesn't argue.

She undresses in the California light.

Golden sun on brown skin. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.

"Three years," she says. "Three years of nothing."

"Not anymore."

I push her onto her couch.

I worship my mother's neighbor.

My mouth traces her sun-warmed skin.

"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my divorce—"

I bury my face between her thighs.

She screams.

"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Three years—ALLA—"

I lick her slowly. San Diego has never tasted better.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"

She explodes.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"

I strip.

Her eyes widen at my cock.

"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "My ex was—nothing—"

"I'm not your ex."

I position myself.

I spread her thick thighs.

"Ready?"

"Haa."

I thrust inside.

She screams.

Her walls grip me—tight, wet, three years tight.

"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"

I start to move.

I fuck my mother's neighbor.

While my mother is at her appointment. Her massive body bounces beneath me.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"

I pound her.

The couch slides across the floor. She screams into a pillow.

"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"

I let go.

I flood Hodan.

Fill her where three years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.

We lie tangled together, gasping.

"Macaan," she breathes. "Your mother can never know."

"Never."

"But you'll visit again?"

"Often."

"Good." She pulls me for a kiss. "I'll make sure your mother has lots of appointments."

One Year Later

I visit San Diego quarterly now.

My mother thinks I'm being a good son. Checking in. Helping out.

She doesn't know about the hours I spend at Hodan's apartment.

"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My favorite visitor."

San Diego is sunshine and palm trees.

And a thick neighbor who makes every visit unforgettable.