The Seamstress of Marrakech | خياطة مراكش
"An American tourist needs a dress altered. The Moroccan seamstress offers to do it after hours. What begins as a fitting becomes something far more intimate."
The Seamstress of Marrakech
خياطة مراكش
The medina swallows tourists whole.
I'm lost, definitely lost, wandering narrow alleys that all look the same. My Riad is somewhere. The souks are somewhere else. I am... here.
Then I see her shop.
"Marhaba."
She's in the doorway—fifty-ish, pleasantly plump, hands stained with dye. Her shop is tiny, filled with fabrics in every color.
"I'm sorry, I'm looking for—"
"You are lost." A statement, not a question. "Americans always get lost. Come. I will help."
Her name is Fatima.
Fifty-three, divorced, three children grown and scattered. She runs this shop alone, making caftans and djellabas for tourists and locals alike.
"Tea first," she insists. "Then directions."
The mint tea is sweet. The conversation, sweeter.
"Why Morocco?" she asks.
"I needed... escape."
"From what?"
"A divorce. A bad one." I don't know why I'm telling a stranger this. "My wife left me for someone else."
"Your wife?"
"Yes." I brace for judgment. "I'm—"
"Mashi mushkil. No problem." She waves her hand. "Love is love. Tea is tea. Drink."
We talk until the tea is gone.
About her marriage—ended when her husband took a second wife. About my marriage—ended when Rachel decided I wasn't enough. About the strange commonality of women left behind.
"You have something that needs fitting?" she asks suddenly.
"What?"
"I see how you look at my work. You have something."
I do, actually.
A dress bought in Fez, meant for a fancy dinner. It's too big in some places, too tight in others.
"I can fix," Fatima says when I show her. "Come back tomorrow. After closing."
"After closing?"
"More time. Better work." She smiles. "And better company."
I return the next evening.
The shop is closed, shuttered against the medina's noise. Fatima lets me in, locks the door behind us.
"Try on," she says, handing me the dress. "Dressing room is there."
I step into the tiny room.
Strip down to my underwear. Pull on the dress.
It fits differently now. Better. But something is still off in the back.
"I need help with the zipper," I call.
Fatima enters.
Her hands find the zipper, pull it up slowly. Her fingers brush my spine.
"Good fit," she murmurs. "But here—" She touches my waist. "Still needs adjustment. Take off. I will pin."
The pins come out.
The measuring tape comes out.
Her hands are everywhere—professional, I tell myself. This is professional.
But she's standing very close. And her fingers linger on my curves.
"You are beautiful," she says quietly.
"What?"
"Your body. Soft. Real." Her hand rests on my hip. "Not like magazine women."
"Fatima—"
"Tell me I am wrong about what I feel between us. Tell me, and I will stop."
I don't tell her to stop.
She kisses me among the fabrics.
Silk and cotton brushing our skin as her mouth finds mine. She tastes like mint and honey.
"I have not—since my husband—" she gasps.
"Shh. I'll show you."
I undress her in her own shop.
Layer by layer, revealing a body she's hidden for decades. Full breasts, round belly, thighs that press together. She tries to cover herself.
"No," I say. "Let me see you."
"I am old—"
"You're beautiful."
I lay her down on bolts of fabric.
Silk beneath her back, velvet beneath her head. She looks like a painting—a Moroccan Venus, waiting to be worshipped.
"Let me taste you," I say.
"I have never—a woman has never—"
"Trust me."
I show her what Rachel taught me.
How to circle her clit with my tongue. How to slip two fingers inside and curl them just so. How to read the sounds she makes and adjust.
"Ya Rabbi—oh—oh—"
"Let go, Fatima. Let me feel you."
She comes with a cry that echoes off the fabrics.
Her whole body shaking, her hands in my hair. I don't stop—I keep going until she comes again, and again.
"Barak Allahu fik," she gasps. "I didn't know—I never knew—"
"Now you know."
"Let me try," she says. "With you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Show me."
She's hesitant at first.
Kissing between my thighs like it's foreign territory. But she learns fast—listens to my moans, follows my hands when I guide her.
"There—yes—right there—"
"Like this?"
"Exactly like that—don't stop—"
I come on silk from Fez.
Her mouth bringing me pleasure I haven't felt since before the divorce. When I finish, she crawls up my body, kisses me.
"I taste like you," she marvels.
"You taste perfect."
We lie together in the shop.
Surrounded by fabrics from every corner of Morocco. The medina is silent outside—it's late, after midnight.
"What now?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"How long are you in Morocco?"
"Two more weeks."
"Then we have two weeks." She traces my face. "Enough to learn each other."
Two weeks become a month.
I extend my trip. Then extend again. Fatima teaches me to sew. I teach her to love women.
"Stay," she says one night.
"Stay?"
"In Marrakech. With me. We could be... partners. In the shop. In everything."
"People would talk."
"People always talk." She shrugs. "Morocco is changing. Slowly. And we are old enough not to care."
"I have a life in America."
"You have things in America. There is a difference."
One year later
I run the front of the shop now.
My Arabic is terrible, but my smile is good. Tourists come for Fatima's craftsmanship and stay for my stories.
"How did you end up in Marrakech?" they ask.
"I got lost," I say. "And someone found me."
At night, Fatima finds me in different ways.
We've grown bold—knowing each other's bodies now, knowing what we need. The shop is our home, the fabrics our playground.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Happier than I've ever been."
"Even in a place where this is forbidden?"
"Especially here." I kiss her. "The forbidden makes it sweeter."
She laughs.
Pulls me close.
Outside, the medina stirs to life for another day.
Inside, we have each other.
Alhamdulillah.
For getting lost.
For being found.
For the seamstress of Marrakech who stitched my heart back together.
The End.