The Somali Phone Repair Shop

Deka's Phone Repair is a closet-sized shop.

But everyone in Cedar-Riverside knows it. Fastest repairs, lowest prices, a woman who can fix anything electronic.

I break my phone spectacularly.

"Ilaahay—what did you do to this?" She holds up the shattered device.

"Dropped it in a parking lot. Then a car ran over it."

"Subhanallah." She shakes her head. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds packed into a small shop. Ebony skin, steady hands, magnifying glasses perched on her nose. "I can fix it. Three days."

"Can you do it faster?"

"Everything is urgent with young people." But she's already opening the phone. "Come back tonight. After close. I'll see what I can do."

I come back at seven.

She's still working. Tiny screwdrivers, soldering iron, a concentration I've never seen.

"Almost done." She doesn't look up. "Sit."

I sit. Watch her work. Her hands move like a surgeon's—precise, confident, delicate.

"Where did you learn this?"

"YouTube. Necessity." She finally looks up. "My husband left me with nothing. No skills, no money, no English. I taught myself to fix things because I had to."

"How long ago?"

"Nine years." She holds up my phone. "Try it."

It works perfectly.

"You're a genius."

"I'm a survivor." She removes her magnifying glasses. "Same thing."

I keep coming back.

For accessories I don't need. For repairs I could do myself. For her.

"You're here again," she says one evening.

"My earbuds stopped working."

"They work fine." She sets them down. "Why are you really here?"

"Because I like watching you work."

"Waas." But she's smiling. "I'm an old tech lady."

"You're brilliant. And beautiful."

The smile fades.

"No one has called me beautiful in nine years."

We're alone. The shop is closed.

"My husband said I was too fat. Too dark. Too Somali." She stares at her hands. "So I made myself useful instead of beautiful. Fixed things instead of being fixed."

"You're not broken."

"I feel broken." She looks at me. "Nine years of being alone. Of touching phones instead of people."

"Touch me."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

Her hands find my face.

The same hands that fix phones. The same precision. The same care.

"You're warm," she whispers.

"You're shaking."

"I forgot what people feel like." She traces my cheek. "Skin is different from screens."

"Let me remind you."

I worship the repair woman.

Her body has fixed a thousand devices. Now I fix her.

She gasps as I undress her in the back room of her tiny shop.

"Nine years—" She's trembling. "I've worked with my hands—never been touched—"

"Tonight you're touched."

Her body is incredible.

Ebony skin soft despite years of work. Breasts heavy and perfect. Belly round with years of eating alone. Hips wide, thighs thick.

I lay her down among phone parts and tools.

Spread her thick thighs.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams as my mouth finds her. Her precise hands grab my head.

"Nine years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"

I lick her through three orgasms.

Her screams echo in the tiny shop.

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

I strip. She watches with those steady eyes.

"Subhanallah—you're—"

"Yours."

I position myself.

I push inside the phone repair woman.

She cries out—nine years of technical celibacy breaking.

"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I make love to her among the electronics.

Her massive body bounces. She comes twice, three times.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"

I release inside her.

We lie among scattered phone cases.

"My phone works perfectly," I tell her.

"I know." She smiles. "That's not why you came."

"No. It's not."

"Come back tomorrow." She kisses me. "I have more repairs to do."

One Year Later

I'm a regular at Deka's now.

Not for phone repairs.

Every night after closing, she fixes me.

"Macaan," she moans. "My favorite device."

The woman who fixes everything.

Finally fixing herself.