Aurelia's Scarf Ch. 02

At the airport, people would often go receive loved ones, and use the excuse to get Nandos, or a late night lounging snack. It was Sunday night, and the returning ones had returned from India.

They were empty, from faraway excursion, and were thinking of being home already. Fatima and Asad, and their children, were received by a family member. He was a capable middle aged man, and carried some of their load. Maher, and his mother Hafsa, were by themselves. The group looked for their exits, insensitive to greet each other. It was post holiday grief, of not wanting to see the others ever again. Recklessly leaving, and forgetting each other.

Maher pushed his and his mother's luggage, on a trolley. And he missed the moment Fatima and Asad had departed from the group, taken by the relative to underground parking. And Maher looked for an Uber, by the arrivals terminal. It was cold, beyond the doors. It was winter, in South Africa. A late stream of traffic trickled in, closing rushed doors, for late night flights.

Maher got into his Uber, watching the wind, passing cars and shadows make Rorschach images on the terminal wall. Was he an antihero, or villain.

And on the way home, to the suburbs of Joburg, on a Sunday night, passing under highway lights, their thoughts flickered the same. Maher wondered if he'd ever see Fatima again. I mean, he knew her name, from the register the tour guide had kept. He wondered if he'd meet Fatima again, would she be absorbed by a daily routine? Would she return to her husband, to make amends. And would she kiss him rather, if she so wished. Fatima, in their relative's car, thought of what made her meet the boy on the rooftop.

They returned home, to darkness. The difference was that Fatima and Asad stayed in a home, where once all the lights were on, appeared warm and gold and cream floor. Her family would all take warm baths, wear fluffy pyjamas, have cappucinos before bedtime. Maher had a darker house, with mahogany furniture in his room. And he checked his inbox from his laptop, hoping the mailbox would be different from a different device. But still, it was empty.

He went to sleep, in clothes that made its way from Chandigarh, to Dubai, to home.

II -

Fatima wondered what made her wear a dress and sweatpants, the last night in Chandigarh. It was an unstylish outfit, awkward pairing. And it had looked weird, partially modest, part playful.

Was it her outfit, that made him leave her like that? Or the way she had tasted. Or was it her hair? Fatima had shaven a few nights prior, and wondered if it was a few nights too much. Would Maher return to girls his own age. Because she was too old, too fluffy.

Fatima couldn't ask, so she texted.

She asked the tour guide, for Maher's number. He gave it, because they were normal middle class people from the suburbs. There was no breach of confidentiality. Fatima explained, that she needed the number to thank him, or for something. Her husband was asleep, her kids watched television in the morning lounge, and she stood at the empty kitchen counter, texting Maher.

-- Hi.

Maher came downstairs, as his mother was making breakfast. He was dressed in a hoodie, sweatpants and backpack, as usual. He got a bottle of water from the fridge, putting it into his bag.

"I thought you were sleeping, today." his mom said.

"Ball is life, ma." Maher said.

He shuffled out the door. Hafsa called again, asking if he wanted to eat. Maher said he'd buy something, or be back by lunchtime. What was it, that made him reject his beloved mother's food. It seemed rude, but he needed time alone.

Was it his failing grades. Was it the email that wasn't coming? Was it the fact that he had loved an older woman? For all his previous grace and reserve, a gust lifted his shameful picture on the walls of his hometown.

Greenside was a formerly fully suburban area, now speckled by deli style shopfronts across the main roads. Lebanese shisha cafes, overpriced chips and burgers, and all the local joints with business rights, dotting. But in the deeper streets, tree tunnelled and shaded area, it still held hushed suburban dreams. Maher walked to the fields, which wasn't far away.

It was near 8 am, sunrise arriving over the green fields. Making a sweetcorn scape. The grass was green, even though it was winter. It was a private club, maintained by executive dads who could pay for the water bill. And five fields were empty, at the home of Green City FC, with dewey ice crystals shimmering over it. Maher glided over, with socked feet, frostbitten grass with his frostbitten thoughts.

A car approached, to relieve him. It was coach, a heavy set man in his fifties.

"Majy, you're early." he said.

Majy was short for magic. A name given to Maher by his teammates. Coach Phumz had parked, and getting out, sat at the edge of his seat. Maher shuffled over, taking sips of cold water.

"Coach it's cold, can I go home?" asked Maher.

"What are you going to do at home?" asked Coach, nonchalantly.

Maher wanted to go to Fatima. Coach sat reading something on his phone. And then, he popped the boot. The lid swung open, and Maher went behind to help, fetching cones and a net of fifteen balls. He heard Coach say something, particularly at him.

"Europe's cold, boy. Europe's cold."

And it pricked him, in a certain way. Maher ignored it, and didn't tell Coach that EGT hadn't replied yet. They carried the equipment over to the fields, walking alongside each other. Coach Phumz carried the cones, he carried the balls. High performance groups hadn't replied yet, but there was something pastoral about being on a field, or in the colosseum, first. Hedges broke wind around them, it was a tree lined field. They seemed like peers, rather than master and apprentice. And Maher often got along with people older than him. Even though Coach was explaining something about the club's new mandate, Maher could only concentrate on the single word, 'mentality'.

And then, a second car. And a third. There were more arrivals.

Maher was often called to help coach. Not due to a persuasive mentality, but due to his creativity and technique, a gold standard, which often resembled magic. His gift was creativity, and if it was gold, his mind was lead. And if he played like magic, his mind felt like a curse. He didn't know how best to scream and bleed like the others, or how to be relentless, yet. And this was a thing scouts had looked for, and this is the thing he probably lacked. And this is why Maher was free on a Monday morning in the school holidays, instead of being in Europe and with gladiators. Rather, Maher was to help out with these under eighteens, now filling out from their or their parent's cars, lacing and catching up with teammates.

The eighteen year olds were younger than him, by two years. Maher felt insecure, but he couldn't say no to Coach. The eighteen year olds talked of their fun nights, their holidays, and their future plans, and Maher could only think of how he had loved an older woman in India.

Training was brutal, there was a clench of legs and a bracing of impact, of boys that were becoming men. Their boots hammered into the ground, and knees clobbered into each other. Maher played in the middle of it all, as the ball cannoned between young generals, war like screams of 'man on' as if in trenches. The younger boys cared not much for Maher's helpless knee, trying to stake their own claims in the bellicose world. And Maher tried to avoid, where he could. He hid from the ball, under the pretense, of opening up passing lanes to others. It was a legitimate concept in football, related to shadows. Maher's shadow dictated him, into clandestinity. His magic retreated. It was over, with graze and a slight bleed.

Maher caught a lift home, with a boy named Zakir in a Yaris. An agreeable boy, with a face of no mystery. And he had a warm shower. Warm water over his tired muscles, a heal. And then, he caught the message on his phone, from an unknown number.

Hi -- it read.

Maher wondered, and tapped the profile picture. It was something vague, of hope. There was no name attached.

Hi. Who is this? -- Maher texted back.

He went downstairs to have lunch. His mom had made rice, and some other things. Maher waited, legs dead from training, and the Himalayan trip, but mind rallying, by the new text. Maher assumed who it could be, he kinda knew.

His phone beeped.

-- This is Fatima.

Typing...

-- Did you and your mom get home, safely?

Maher realised that it was Fatima. She had a generic profile picture, like all the middle aged woman. She had found his number, somehow.

-- Yes. Thanks.

Maher answered. But before he could say anything, she said further.

-- And thank you for the gift.

Maher felt she was being formal. Was it to end things, completely. Did they even have 'a thing'. Was it just a silly holiday thing?

-- No problem. Did you like it?

Maher asked, of the earrings he had bought her. There was no response. Maher saved her name as Fatima, wondering if this was it.

III -

Fatima had a bake, ready for dinner. Asad had slept most of the day, but he was up now, and packing. They had just returned from India, but there were two weeks left of the school holidays, and Asad's sister in the cape wanted to spend some time, with her niece little Sadie.

Asad and Sadie, were to go. They lived close by family, both hers and his. And family would always be near. A niece of Fatima would come by, for tea. A second cousin of Asad had lived nearby, and would be there in an emergency. And they lived in a time of Uber and MrDelivery, a grocery service to your door. The couple would be okay, a few days away.

Sadie was six, growing fast. And her aunt was faraway. Asad could get work done there, too. Sahil wanted to stay home, for a five a side tournament on Friday night, because he had 'promised' his friends. Fatima would stay home, with him.

Asad ate, the bake was lovely. He talked of an audit, that had equalled by the end. Fatima listened, and thought of her own equation, that was not equalling. And she refrained from its calculation, by baking a big white cake, to hide her dark sin in it, somewhere. Asad assumed taking greater responsibility, a greater radius at work. Asad was at the age, to. If the week went well, maybe he would personally see to Emirati audits that weren't going so well. But that was next week. Asad asked her, casually, if she wanted another holiday, a week in Dubai. They had already had a layover there, returning from India. But she had reason, to return.

Fatima, baking a cake at night, wondered if she could take her sin with, drop it in a bottle and bury it under the faraway sand. It was early enough, to pretend it didn't happen. Or, did she want more? Fatima said she'd think about it, serving him cake.

They humped at night, like formal spouses.

And in the morning, she dropped him off at the airport, and said goodbye to half of her family. Fatima drove, the freeways were empty on a Tuesday morning, and she returned home with Sahil. Fatima did the rest of the laundry from travel, while Sahil played some videogames. She reordered her closet, thinking if she needed pretty pastel coloured dresses for her twilight age. Poetry had a sale.

She took the liberty of a quiet day. Asad and Sadie would be in Cape Town, by now. And at lunch, she made Sahil a sandwich.

And late afternoon, when Sahil was outside kicking the ball against the wall, she thought of Maher again. It was safe in the suburbs, except for messy haired intruders with dark eyes.

"Why did you kiss me and leave?" she couldn't ask, so she texted.

There were a few papers of Sahil's on the countertops. It was visual, diagrams and schematics of football ideas. Fatima texted.

-- Some of Sahil's papers are messed. Can you help me figure out what they're for? It's unreadable to me.

And she spilled some tea, for proof.

Back then, kids were taught to run and express themselves. These days, they were given restricted spaces and rules, to play within. To make correct decisions all the time, and pass the buck of rebellion to another. Fatima, maybe, understood the concept of positional play, but she didn't realise it yet. And in her restricted way, Fatima manufactured a delightful rebellious and correct way, to meet Maher.

-- Sure. Those are notes about superiority, numerical. I can get a copy of it, if you need? A friend of mine's little brother plays for the same acedemy. He'll probably have a copy of it.

Was his reply. She didn't understand anything, she just wished to meet. To see if he thought she was disgusting, or he was shy, and considered her a great goddess.

-- If it's not a bother.

She had said, polite.

-- What time shall I come?

Fatima thought.

-- This evening?

Thinking Maher had things to do, in the day. Wanting him to come, closer to night.

IV -

Fatima dressed, insecure of all the unanswered questions. She wore a shirt dress, black with few white stripes, cinched one knot tighter at the waist. And cream suede slip ons, to appear comfortable.

She answered the gate, Maher was there. He had parked, just inside the driveway. Maher was an elegant standing person, and she was concious of her own flagging posture. But he had a smile that assured, and captured hearts just a little more, than the way he stood. Fatima stood, at the door.

Among the shady walls, creeper obscured and intercoms like beady eyes, watching. Fatima had called him closer to evening, because the neighbours would not be able to tell the awkwardness of their greeting, beneath the great dark trees that sheathed them, flashing against the fence and wall to distract. The walls were high, trees were. And because Fatima's niece had taken Sahil for a movie, and Sahil wanted to spend the night with his aunty cousin.

Maher entered, oblivious. He held a printout of papers, belonging to the kid. Fatima invited him in, they walked through the passageway, she realised she hadn't closed the curtains yet. She pulled it closed, as the wind was beginning to pick up.

"Sorry for making you come, this late." she said.

"It's okay. Is he here, I can explain it to him?" he said, of the papers.

Fatima explained that Sahil was away, and that she just needed the printout, because the coach who had given it to Sahil, was no longer at the academy. He would often provide the kids with extra notes and puzzles, to intrigue their minds. And it wasn't standard curriculum of the academy. He handed it over, she thanked Maher for it.

"How's uncle?" Maher asked.

It was a decent consideration. Fatima explained, that he and Sadie were in the cape.

The noise of the trees bellowed. She was glad Sahil wasn't on the way home tonight, and felt bad if Maher had to leave in this weather. She was suddenly protective, of her two.

"Can I make tea?" Fatima asked, guilty.

In the kitchen, Fatima made tea. She stood at the stove, and Maher sat at an empty kitchen island. A bare white marble, that led to the window. And as the prussian blue storm flashed against it, he took refuge in her.

Surely, it wasn't a homely dress. It was stiff, and smart. A black base and white stripe, made more Rorschach images in his mind.

"Why did you leave, like that?" she finally asked.

"So I could return, it was tactical." he explained.

And she knew now, that he did want more of her. Fatima poured the tea, not letting him know any more.

"Sugar?" she asked.

He spooned two. And they had a biscuit each, watching the storm.

If the ancient Tibetan Cham dance had unfurled their masks, the local rain undid their armor.

And after tea, when he had brought his empty cup to the basin, and she was turning with a free hand, he paused before her, noticing she had worn the earring he gifted her. He sat the cup down, behind her. And he was still partially, in her way.

Fatima looked up at him, as he stared at her earring beneath her scarf. It was loosely draped, and there was a flirtatious space between her ear and the cashmere. Maher placed a finger to her ear, and felt the earring dangle in the lightest of ways. And as she breathed, he kissed her on the cheek.

Maher leaned back out. And Fatima didn't want him to know, that her cheek flushed an embarrassing warm pink, she turned away to the counter. But not further, and he was still behind her. And she felt him press closer, in aura and warmth. Not touch.

And then, she felt his hand, slide around her hips. Fatima had her tummy seize, and depressed to ease his hand. It stopped at a button, of her shirt dress, and undid it. And it carried on to shimmy between the space of two buttons, and beneath her underwear, making to her mound. He rippled a finger in, and she dropped her head slightly. It was just a fingertip, and she felt it warm.

She was clammy-like, and cold. Maher ran his fingertip, down and up, deliberately. Inside of her, just. Fatima faced away to the counter, and he closed up behind her. She felt his sharp angled silhouette, against her rounded behind. And she felt his finger, warming and soft. Delicate.

He pushed a finger in, and she gasped. He stood behind her, pulling his finger up inside her. Fatima had gasped not out of pleasing feeling, but by feeling entered. Fatima felt a benevolent claim, by a polite boy. And he fingered her from behind, wistfully dreaming of her neck.

He bit at her ear, playful, right as he closed a thumb over her clitoris, stifling it from both inside and outside. Eroding her reserve, with his pillow soft fingers. It was dark down there, and his fingertip was first like a lamp, and now rubbing her like he was trying to start a fire.

But Fatima turned around, she wouldn't let him go. She lowered herself to a squat, and pulled down his sweatpants, before he could prepare. She wasn't going to let Maher oil her, and leave. Like last time. Between the empty island and countertops, Fatima squatted on the kitchen floor, taking the boy's cock into her mouth.

She had not seen the print underneath his fleece, in her haste. It was seven inches, and it wasn't much spectacular. It was smooth, fair and pleasantly rounded at head. His penis grew in her mouth, a rod stiffened by her soft warm tongue. Fatima held him, by his base, running her mouth and lip lightly over his penis, just two or three inches shallow. Maher hadn't consented or prepared yet, in a fashionable way, but she was determined to not have unanswered questions for the rest of the week.

Fatima sucked on him, squatted on the kitchen floor, until he raised her.

And led her to the couch, where her family watched tv in the mornings. He draped Fatima on the couch, she had staggered little steps in a partially opened shirt dress, panties around her ankles. Maher sat behind Fatima laying down, and removed her shoes. Her cream suede slip ons. They each had one leg angled off the couch, and a foot on the floor. Perched behind her, he lifted her dress up over. Her bum was cushy, and she felt air upon it. And she was insecure, but he hunkered, holding a hardening cock between his hands. She felt the underside of his fingers, and his dick, touch her tush. Maher leaned forward, and she felt his head slip between her cheeks, towards an opening unseen beneath. Fatima gasped, as his head entered, round into a dark crescent. She pressed a black sock into the floor, bracing. Maher leaned ahead, and slipped in, further.

Her bum was cushy, and he could only get in, halfway. And this was enough, and he began to ride her, slowly. Fatima felt the underside of his pelvis, and thighs, rubbing over up the back of hers. He wasn't fully in, but enjoyed the slow ride. He was sharp silhouetted, and she was cushy. And there was a disintegration of their bodies and airs, into each other. A stark contrast, melting and disappearing with each push.

Maher rode her, and Fatima plunged deeper into the couch, under his light weight. She let out a breath, and it inspired him to beam forward, pressed against her back. And then, he began to bring his pelvis up and into her, in an arc. Bending, bowing, arcuating. An arm resting at the side of her face, Maher curved his torso up and in her, the couch squiggled, until he cummed releasing warm stream.

Just out of Fatima. It spurted, only to disappear beneath her dark crescent, meekly. Dripping into the couch beneath their bodies. He collapsed on top of her, she didn't mind. They remained lying on each other, breathing on the couch. Cum, seeping in.

They pulled up clothes, after ten minutes, to lie warm and nestled.

V -

An early frosted light creeped in, at slithers by the top and sides of the curtains. Into the lounge, the couch near the kitchen, where Fatima and Maher had slept the night. Cradled, they awoke at the same time, remarkably, on the narrow couch, in the same position they had fallen asleep. They breathed, and it was all they could hear.

And then a car hoot startled them. The both got up, immediately and questioning. Fatima looked at her phone, and Maher dressed, waiting for her report back. They looked for rogue pieces of clothing.

"I didn't think she'd bring him so early." she said.

Maher began figuring out answers, to unknown questions.

"Just say you're here to give Sahil something." she helped.

Fatima rushed off, slow enough to give him time, fast enough to open for the arrival, who shouldn't suspect a thing from the minute or two delay. And Maher straightened, the cushions and couch too.

Maher's car was in the driveway. Fatima opened the gate, her niece's car entered, and parked. And Fatima's son Sahil got out, followed by his cousin aunt, Raeesa. They both considered Maher's car in the driveway, and Fatima spoke up early.

"It's a friend of Sahil's." Fatima said.

"I thought you got a new car. How are you aunty Fatima?" Raeesa said.

"Who, mommy?" Sahil asked, Fatima pretended not to hear.

Raeesa and Fatima hugged, and Sahil wondered who his supposed car friend was. They entered, and into the kitchen, where Maher sat at the end of the island, formal. He held the printout of papers, in hand. Raeesa evaluated the stranger, sitting in the house, the stranger smiled, and the stranger handed the papers over to the kid, as if this were his work here. Raeesa didn't suspect a thing. How could she, it was just her ordinary good aunt, and a brown suburb boy.

Fatima stood by, hoping no stains or rogue hair, would be seen. And she wondered, if Maher had covered the region of the couch he had cummed on, with pillows.

To keep everyone in the kitchen, at the marble island, away from the sinister couch, Fatima asked, if she could make tea. And everyone settled. Raeesa sat, on a further end from Maher. They were around the same age, and had to keep the distance out of formality. They were strangers, brown, of marriageable age. Raeesa kept her gaze partially away, Maher explained the ball notes to Sahil, about numerical superiority. It meant having more players in a certain space than the opposition.

And even though the lovers were matched by the intruders, two by two, it certainly felt to the lovers -- that they were weaker, perhaps it was the flutter in their tummies from waking on the couch together. And innocently remembering Maher as his friend from the India trip, Sahil listened to Maher.

And Fatima made tea.

"Are you on holiday, like Maher?" Fatima had asked Raeesa.

To distract. Raeesa explained, that she was on break, but had research this morning. They were both at Wits, Raeesa had asked Maher by a look, and Maher replied with a smile. Maher offered to leave as soon as he was done, as to deter Fatima's family member, from thinking he was familiar enough for tea. But Fatima insisted, that she was making for him too, and he sat back down. Like a good boy, a good lover.

And Maher sat, like a moth at flame, virgin at milf.

Raeesa took initiative to speak, asking her aunt of plans of the weekend. Just home. Sahil had soccer on Friday night, but nothing else. Fatima had said. It would maybe be a weekend in.

Raeesa was full of life, a college girl. She wore a headscarf, tied in a turban, a flowing abaya with sneakers. And she was independent, she drove and parked fast. Seemed to fill her day full, with schedule. Things like, disturbing lovers. Fatima and Maher sat, discreet. Raeesa further barged, talking about a run in Wanderers, asking Fatima to come. They could go to Melrose, after. But Fatima wasn't an athlete. Oh no, no. And she was still tired, from India. And didn't one need to train for it, Fatima had asked.

It was a casual thing, for everyone, Raeesa explained. It had different lengths of run, and registration was open until Thursday, which was tomorrow. Maher thought of the run, alongside Fatima, and he wondered if he'd fall out of love when he saw her run, because he was attracted to his own elegant style on the pitch. But no, if anything, Maher wanted to see her run, and dance, someday.

Raeesa enquired of when her uncle Asad was coming home. Ruining the thought. And she offered her aunt a night, a braai, by her. As if the young was the elder lady, Raeesa offered. But Fatima was young in love. Fatima was still averse, pouring tea.

"Take Sahil. Sahil, do you want to go?" Fatima told Raeesa, and asked Sahil.

Sahil liked his aunt, and he was obviously game. And Fatima had the weekend, free. She giggled inside, like a teen love. Fatima poured Maher his tea.

"Maher, do you run?" Fatima asked.

To speak to him, to show Raeesa that they weren't hiding anything. And that they were not lovers. Maher stared at her eyes, following suit, saying that football was enough running. They had tea, and Maher had to depart with the college girl. He couldn't stay, beyond.

At home, Maher crashed on his bed, missing Fatima. It would be at least a few days, before he could see her again. He had lied to his mother about a stayover, by Zakir, but could dream of his new lover alone in his room.

Suddenly, he didn't want to cum by his lamp. He texted her.

M -- Can you run?

It was a few minutes, before she replied.

F -- No. I would be finished in 20 meters.

Maher considered.

M -- Let's do it.

F -- Nooo!

M -- Yesss

F -- If I collapse?

M -- I'll carry you home.

F -- Hero. But my husband's not home.

M -- Exactly!

F -- If you carry me home, the neighbours will think... something.

M -- We'll create a story, like today.

F -- You may not be as lucky, as today.

M -- We can do rainbow flicks, over anyone.

F -- Sahil will be by my side. He will know, he's my protector.

Maher couldn't argue, she loved her kid.

M -- Where's he playing, on Friday?

F -- Mars Park.

Maher had vague memories, of playing there once.

M -- Are you going to watch?

F -- Yes. Will you come?

M -- Of course.

It was long, until then. Two days. And Maher turned his face further into the pillows. He didn't want to be a lusty boy to her.

But Maher knew, that after Sahil's game on Friday night, Sahil would be at his aunt's. For the run, Saturday. Maher felt the days worth it, to have a weekend with Fatima. And then, he could be lusty.

He waited for an email, for his inbox to change. It didn't. Was he really going to be a footballer?

VII -

Thursday, he spent time with his mother, Hafsa.

Maher had took her for a day out, to the mall. For dinner. For late night milkshake. Afraid, he'd commit a sin this weekend. And they returned home, Maher bathed and groomed.

In a steamy shower, Maher stood. His body was warm skinned, and supple in the steam. His back and chest were lean, his arms were narrow, and veins ran spiralled around his legs. He was slender, but broad at thighs enough, to make him look a bit manlier without clothes.

He cut his own hair, tapered. Just around the ear, neatening by his neck. His chest was smooth, and made himself down there smooth as marble. Maher looked like a man, with a boyish face.

And he waited for tomorrow, like he was a kid on Eid night.

And Fatima prepared, just by being smooth. A little glossy, oil to her face.

On Friday night, a hundred kids played, splayed like fireflies across the fields at night. It was floodlit, a casual tourny at Mars Park, and it was a reprieve from the violence of adult football. Maher watched, they were all innocent and not trying to stake claim in the world. And then he saw Fatima, his light and one claim.

She was wearing a black jacket, and black skirt. The jacket was short to her waist, and it was open in front, revealing a cream sweater. Her scarf draped across her, keeping her warm. And she wore closed heels, with a short block.

Maher came over, to stand by her. They watched Sahil's game play out. He was present in her, but looking away at the game. Sahil played on the left.

"He's playing winger, today." Maher said.

They both stared ahead.

"What's your position?" she asked.

"Uhm, I used to be a 10, but now I play a little deeper." he said.

"What's a 10?" she asked.

"It's between the midfield and striker." he showed, with mellow gesture.

Fatima didn't understand, they were both a little shy.

"And my Sahil, what number is he?" she asked, of her son.

"He's 7, or 11, today. But the way he spoke the other day, I'd think he was a 9."

"What's a nine?" she asked.

"A striker." he said.

They paused the conversation, watching.

"What are you?" he asked.

Fatima turned, a smile coy.

"What do I look like?" she inquired, searching his eyes.

Maher considered, pulling his lips.

And a goal, turned them away to the game. Sahil had set up a teammate, and they were celebrating. Fatima clapped, and Maher too, but he turned back to stare at her. She was pretty, and becoming more of life.

And even though Sahil and his team had gone through, to the game at nine, Maher was wondering what would happen after. Would Raeesa come now, to fetch Sahil? So Maher could have Fatima. Did Fatima have to drop Sahil off, by his cousin aunt. The run was early tomorrow, and it was getting late. Especially, for Fatima to drive home.

Before he could offer, Raeesa and her brother Isa had arrived. They had been late to come home, eat and pitch up at the tourny. They were here now. And they were to both fetch Sahil, and accompany Fatima home. And they did, Fatima greeted by a departing look, that snatched things from Maher he hadn't understood yet.

And Maher was just a stranger again, he had melted into the crowd when Fatima's family arrived. He couldn't be seen with her twice in a week. And he was left alone, as the five a side courts emptied out, at ten at night.

He sat on a bench, watching the lights fall into desolation.

And he got a text. From Fatima.

F -- Home.

M -- ????

Maher texted relieved emojis, there was no reply. Until.

F -- Want hot chocolate?

Maher sat on, smiling. And then he got up.

After hot chocolate, he fell next to her on the couch, and they tilted sideways, to kiss. She smelled like almond perfume, and she wore a cream sweater. The black jacket was off, and the conforming fit appeared delicate and woolly, slender and he could see the roundedness of her arms, too. Maher kissed her.

On her lips, on her chin. On the angle of her jawline. She tilted her head. On the underside of her jaw. Peck. Peck. Peck. His lips were firm, small but firm. And she appreciated the sharpness of his darting kisses, against what she considered her flabby face.

Maher held a hand, to the opposite side of her face being kissed. He held her angled, like a guide. And then, he pushed her back, laying her on the couch. Her head rested by the arm rest. He flittered over her, with a smile, and leaned down in by her neck, kissing continued. Planting kisses down in a line, down her bare neck.

Meeting the lining of her sweater. He reached from her tummy, fingers underneath, and pulled the material over, she lifted her arms. And he dropped the sweater on the floor besides them. She wore a black bra, her breasts hid underneath. He continued, by placing kisses on her bare tummy, by her navel. Fatima felt flabby, but he was just subduing by the caressing pecks. And he slowly went down, a kiss just before her skirt lining.

Maher raised, undid the skirt's side zip, and pulled it off from under her. She raised her legs, and he slid it over her heels. Dropping the skirt behind them. She was in heels, panty and bra, laying on her back underneath him. He kneeled, pulled his jumper off, to reveal another top beneath, long sleeve and black. And he bowed back, to kiss at the side of her lips, sliding a hand under her to undo her bra.

It unclasped, slipped away from her, revealing her. Fatima's breasts were round, moderately big, with dark rounds at its centre. He fell further down, between her legs. Her panties were ordinary black, Maher stayed by her knees, raising them either side of his head. She was insecure, it had either been in the dark, or from behind, previously. But he kissed the insides of her thighs gracefully, and pulled completely uncovering her. He dropped her panties, on the floor.

In the light, her aperture was an ellipse, with great folds, and dark bronze skin on the outside. It was thulian pink on the inside, with darker garnet or rosewood leafed lips. It was pretty, and Maher placed his lips to it, and rippled about in it. Until, she was oily.

Maher rose, removed his pants, sneakers. A bulge underneath his underwear, with a spot at its tip, like a cherry on top. She still wore her heels. Maher pulled his top off, revealing his smooth chest. And placed between her, lowering his underwear to his thighs. His cock seemed bigger today, probably eight inches, in a glimpse.

Maybe, it was the sight of her rose. Maher leaned between her, her block heels raised either side, and she felt his tip touch her tip. He couldn't wait, and slid in. Sliding all the way in, in a skid. Maher fell near her face, and began to pump.

Her eyes were round, deep brown. He averted, slipping in and out of her, cascading layers in his mind, falling deeper and deeper into her pelvis. Entranced, he pushed into her, in partly kneeling missionary, and soon he didn't know where his pelvis ended and hers began, as it all felt meltingly smooth.

And he cummed, this -- he felt separate, warm ropes of 'his' stream jetting up in her. And the little reverberations from her walls. He collapsed, letting a heave, weakly. Maher pumped, one or two more times, out of ownership. But he was done. And she hadn't cummed yet.

Maher wasn't going to let her be his mother, and he raised, put on his big boyness, and reached for her, sliding a middle finger up her. He ran his finger in and out of her, faster, curved just slightly. Enough, to reach her g spot, if it existed. But he was virgin, and kneeled fingering her, hoping he could be a lover. Her curious eyes captured him, and was desperate to remain in them. He fingered, rubbed, touched for his life, until she came.

And his finger felt dripping, enough. Fatima had only quietly and elegantly moaned, and it was a celebration enough, approval of his lover status, her wax on his finger like a king's seal.

He brought his finger to his lips, and licked her liquids off of it. Clean. And she felt, that he could own her now, if he wanted.

VIII -

They woke up in her bedroom. It was early, and Maher had opened his eyes, early. To have more of her for the day. Early gold was slanting in, over the top of the curtains. The bed was white and cream, her body was wheatish, and he stared sideways, at her face.

"What time?"

"What time what?" she asked.

"What time do I have to leave by, tomorrow?" he asked.

"Aw, you want a date?" she began.

She smiled.

"Again tomorrow?" she added.

"Yes." Maher said.

Fatima didn't reply. She thought, a little deeply..

"I thought, maybe, you wanted to go on the run this morning, because of Raeesa." she said, of her recent insecurity.

Maher stared at her.

"Why would I want to meet her again?" he asked.

"She's pretty, isn't?" Fatima said.

"You're prettier." she said.

Fatima didn't believe him, smiling.

"He's coming at night." she said. "You better get these silly lines out of your head, by then." Fatima sat up.

Maher watched Fatima get up. In the clear morning, she was rounded now, but petite in her youth. He could tell, from the way she stood. All the little imbalanced weights, came from a mom diet, of worry and leftover carbs. Her physiognomy was 'married but prettier in her youth'. And her arms, waists and thighs weighed with aging truth. The bigger truth was that Maher found her kinkier, than a featherweight brown girl, who would give him everything he wanted. He wanted Fatima's heavy mess.

And even though she wore a plain white night dress, it looked like a mischief nightie. She had cummed yesterday, he was proud of that at least, but he wanted more of her and his stirring cock just wouldn't promise to make her cum, now in the morning. So he ignored it, and wanted to stare at her over breakfast, instead.

If you were brown, there were people you knew from South Africa to Kenya, all way. There were four directions, to brown eyes, and hiding from them, in Johannesburg. There was the west, where Lenasia was full of people you once knew in 2002. There was the south, where some pretentiously minxy brown women hid behind their hill. The central Fordsburg, where people got food, and Egyptian, Syrian and Pakistani shop owners sat outside their shops. And Marlboro, where uncles would take their cars to other uncles' kids who knew them, and would give them discount after hearing "You know me?". Eastly, where Actonville was old brown, and Lakefield was new brown. Actonville brown sat at home, and Lakefield brown scuttled to fancier shops in the mornings, on a never ending quest for fancy things. Independent girls like Raeesa, who used their dad's cars and the weekends, like a whore. And there was the north, where Rivonia was busier at night, quiet in the day, and Fourways and beyond were spacier.

Greenside, Emmarentia, Parkhurst, Rosebank and Houghton were closely connected, a string of suburbs with varying nuances of intention, but similar prices of cappuccino and coffee. In the morning, everyone went everywhere, and with the run assailing through the green suburbs, like an intrusive snake, there were less places to be discreet with a lover. Maher and Fatima sat on the patio, at a strip mall.

It was suburb outskirts, where the Wanderes run wouldn't touch, near Magaliessig. The trees were tall and pine, just like the Himalayas. But this was a highveld dry one. It was where no familiar face would pass by, for morning electronics, like vape. It was a secret coffee shop, in a small unknown strip mall. And Fatima and Maher sat behind a hedge, in a smoker's garden, despite neither of them being smokers. To hide, and be with each other, in a public place. They always ran the risk of being seen, but her floral dress with green and purple flowers, puffed sleeves, on white linen cloth, and sandals made her appear like summer in winter, and it was worth it, at least to the naive and young boy.

The days were warm in South Africa, even in the winter. And the smell of pork, or at least the haraam cafe selling sandwiches, would keep any familiar brown faces from this specific cafe. Because their family, and friends, and known brown strangers, had often frequented absolutely all the cafes in a 100 km radius, and these lovers didn't want to drive that far. Because they wanted to return home early, to kiss for the most time until late.

So, they had coffee here. And pastry. Pastei de nada.

"What would you have done, if it was my husband?" she said.

"Jumped out the window." he said.

Fatima took a bite, of her custard tart.

"And if, he wanted to have me, would you look?" she asked.

Mafer felt ground slip, beneath his feet.

"Or would you look away?" she asked.

Suddenly, like a noir film femme fatale, the ordinary mom was capable of being it.

"I'd come back in." he said.

"To watch?" she asked.

"To make him taste you off of me rather, if he wanted you." he said, possessive of her.

"Are you gay?"

"Bi, you mean. No. I just don't want him to have you." he said, blankly.

A little ignorant, and jealous.

"Are you jealous?" she asked. "He is my husband." she said, minutely protective.

Maher's tap of venom, opened.

"You think he loves you?" he said, with scorn.

"What does love even mean, I'm sitting here with you." she said. "I'm the one betraying him, at the moment."

"He won't say no to... Raeesa?" he asked, amusingly pensive.

"She's his niece. He's decent." Fatima said.

"An escort?" Maher immediately retorted.

Fatima wondered, if her husband was capable of it.

"I'll find him an escort, and let's see, I'll do it as his younger friend." Maher schemed a plan, trying to convince Fatima that he was.

"You don't mind betraying?" she asked.

"I don't mind betraying him, for you." he said.

Maher stared at her, with convinced eyes. Convincing eyes.

"I have a rank. You, everyone else. Everyone else can go to hell." he said, straight. "Including Raeesa."

Fatima wondered if he really was in love with her. And if he was a beginner lover, or an expert.

"What about your mom?" she asked.

"She doesn't count." he said.

And they sat, at deadlock. The theory of it had stopped, neither of them even knew what the original question was. Were they actually in love, did they just want to fuck each other.

"How will you see me, when he's back?" she asked.

"Send me pictures. I'll come in the morning." he said.

"And at nights, how will you deal with the jealousy?" she asked, adjusting her leg.

Maher exhaled, coffee breath. And thought.

"You know what, I'll make him used to me. I'll go to Jummah at the same mosque. I'll greet him often. I'll buy food on weekends from the same places as him. Where do you'll get food from usually? I'll be there." Maher convinced both himself and her, "And when you'll decide to open the relationship, he'll think of me first."

Fatima admired the boy's spirit.

"And he'll be the one choosing my lover?" she asked, chin on her hand.

Maher realised, that she wasn't that oppressed.

"I'll make him like me enough, to suggest me." he said, helplessly. Realising he was completely out of control of the situation.

She felt slightly sorry for him, he broke nonchalance to get this far.

"Find him an escort, and we'll see." she offered him a chance.

His name was pronounced as Ma - Hir with the hir part pronounced, as in hero. But he didn't know who the villain was, in this story. Everyone was capable, in some way, and it felt like a noir cast of characters. And even though Fatima was in control, found him charming, she allowed him to think he was in control, preparing to be his bitch.

IX -

The ride home was quiet, Maher sat in the passenger seat, and Fatima drove. They had taken her car, a Toyota instead of her husband's Mercedes, because she was more comfortable driving her car. Last night, Maher had come by Uber, to avoid the car in the yard problem, and she drove him around like he was her little bitch.

And if they got home, to fuck, and if Raeesa came at a silly time offering a tray of food or something to Fatima, because she was home alone, Maher could just sit in the back, waiting, naked.

He wore his clothes from yesterday, jumper, top, pants and sneakers. And he pulled his jumper off, pushing into her, into a kitchen cupboard. Primally, holding at her hips, kissing her neck, making sure not to bite. Because her husband was home tomorrow. It was still eleven am, and he kissed. She held his face, guiding to kiss her on the lips, but he pulled away to sink to his knees.

Not again. She lowered herself as he did, and pushed him to sit, leaning a little back. He sat on the floor, knees in a diamond either side. Pelvis open. And she parted her legs, lowering to him and removed her panties to the side. She had sqatted for the moment, glanced to see where her opening was, and held him by her hand to put the wood up her. Slipping up her, disappearing. She dropped further, and then began to lift up and down, on it. Maher tilted back, watching her rise and fall slowly, her inner thighs either side of him, drooping with just a little flab. Fatima placed her hands on his clothed chest, and rode him, her sandals and feet either side of his pelvis, flat on the floor. Her opening was smooth, hugging and warm.

And she began to glide, getting wet, her controlling the pace.

Maher couldn't hold, and leaned ahead reaching for her back. He ensnared her, wrapping his hands around her back, and held her close by, trying to match her rhythm. But Maher was floored, and she had the high ground. And she used her flat footing to control the pace. Maher could only wait, for her pink walls to slide, as per its own will. He couldn't cum early, from this leaning angle. As she rode, preserving and consecrating him, in her rhythm.

Until she was piqued enough, and he was agonized enough, to want to cum from the penetration. A close enough range, where it was possible for both, through riding. As Fatima passed up and down over his dick, he waited. She tilted forward, placed her hands straighter and firmer on his chest, and flattened to her knees. Her sandals had disappeared behind her, somewhere. She brought her pubis back and forth over his, rubbing her mound over his, in a war of changing attrition. And he held just enough, to cum a few seconds before her, as she rode on and cummed, too. A miracle. That is maybe what happens, when you let a women control. Who even, was in control.

And hers was thicker, her walls had oiled, but if this was cum, it was thicker. He felt stuck in her. Held, even as his dick softened and smalled. But she sat on him. And they breathed. She look down upon him, and his eyes were wanting. She smiled, Maher couldn't even if he wanted to. His body was paralysed. She sat on, and as his little fingers began to regain feeling and control in it, he staggered it behind her bum, trying to shepherd it forwards to his face. Fatima realised what he wanted, and she stammered in steps, moving her pubes up his torso, to place it by his lip.

She sat, flat footed, placing her mound by his mouth. And he began to eat at it, she tilted her head back. And he ate for an eternity, her dress falling like curtains around, and he had no other wish for now but eating her. He had closed his lips haphazardly over, tongue in swirls and straightened lines, in and out of her, broad and narrow. She moaned. And his dick was free behind, probably straight, but ignored and not making him a victim of his cum. He could eat her, yearning and hankering, without the threat of early cum of a lusty youth. And he did his honor, and pride, until she came.

It had been maybe half an hour. But she had cummed a second time, for the day. And she fell over, her hair falling by his face. She curved above him, wanting to fall flat, recovering. The boy waited, patiently.

And then, Maher pulled out from under her, as she planed down on the floor, hands either side of her face. His dick, straight again, he turned to look back at her, she was collapsed, and her dress had fallen over her behind. She wasn't looking at him, but his dick was alive.

Maher turned his torso, parted her legs slightly, and leaned behind the rise of her bum. Lifting her dress, over. He placed his dick at her entrance, pushed it inwards, and straightened his arms either side of hers. She didn't mind, he began to hump her, on the kitchen floor. It was that second or third cum, and each thrust felt like a heave, a struggled push, an exasperated lurch, to cum. They both budged one inch forward, on the kitchen floor, his cum one inch away with every thrust.

And he did, with a trickle. It was enough for now.

They sat on the couch, watching sports. Maher watched the football, and Fatima alternated, between the game and him.

"What do you study?" she asked.

Noticing his interest in the football, wondering what kind of academics could demand the same attention.

"Data science." he said, casually.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"It's a little boring, until you find a correlation." he said.

Fatima stared, at the way he watched football. And she wondered what kind of girl could demand the same attention.

"And what correlation do you find, in me?" she asked.

He turned to her, she looked at him expectant.

"Pretty." he just said.

It was enough, but she wanted more. She didn't say, though.

"From all your data," he added, "you look at me, pretty everytime. You dress pretty, everyday. Your smile is pretty. Pretty. Pretty. Pretty, the correlation is you and pretty." he had joked.

"I'm serious!" she said.

Maher thought.

"Every time I'm with you, I feel free." he said.

And that was it.

He couldn't answer her internal correlations, only she could. That was from her data. He could only tell correlation of his dataset, intersection with hers. Two datasets. And a word that could explain their auras entwined, was freedom. It was hard to explain in a quantitative concept, how he felt about her. Besides losing time, with her.

Maher, being afraid Raeesa would show up soon with some offering, losing time with Fatima.

Fuckin' Raeesa. He wanted Fatima all to himself.

He stared at her, innocently. And she rose, to kneel before him, and gave him a blowjob.

Loving eyes, and slow. It was unknown if he cummed, because fucking Raeesa with her doek was there again, with some barbecue. Maher waited in the back, for her to leave. Sahil hadn't come to see his mom, he was away for two days straight.

And when she was gone, they ate.

And Maher stayed over by Fatima, for the first time in his life feeling like a bimbo.

X -

On Sunday, they fucked.

They had sex, upon waking. He turned to face her, placed his penis in her, lifted her leg, slightly, and humped. Maher's face leaned by hers, an arm draped around her back replacing the sheet that had fallen, chest against her bareness.

He roved up, slowly. Until they were a sticky deluge, on the bed.

In the mid morning, he ate at her morning canal, tasting her caked honey and his. She tasted sweet, perhaps from the barbecue sauce from last night.

They had coffee, and he fingered her on the couch, again. He pressed her, groped at her, familiarising himself with all of her body. They had bathed separately, he humped her later with arms around, holding her and making up for the lost time, even if it had only been twenty minutes apart in the water.

On Sunday, they fucked slow all day. And at night, he had to leave.

He didn't care about his cum in her, she might've had a plan, as he got into his uber. Fatima had told him, that they might go to Dubai this week. And Maher asked, if Asad wasn't tired from all the travelling. Fatima didn't know, thinking of burying her secret. Maher remembered that he had to find an escort to tempt Asad, and prove Asad's disloyalty.

So that Maher could have Fatima, without that much guilt.

On Sunday night, at the parade of Cartier, Louis Vuitton and Prada, Maher staggered down the walk, thinking of her. Her husband could afford all these things, for her. He was eating baklava from the Greek place downstairs, sold at half price late at night, to clear. Perhaps all they needed was a spark, and they would return to each other. Maher felt used. She was probably with her husband, now. And it disturbed Maher, and he felt like Fatima's discarded bitch. Perhaps he needed to improve his game, earn more, and make Fatima comfortably his.

Take her to Greece, flat sand -- not this hill and shadows and suburban tree hidden quiet love -- and in the open, on flat sand on the beach, behind the rocks, romance her like she's a girlfriend, not a fetish. Like she's eighteen.

He couldn't afford to, yet. And, don't underestimate the power of a branded bag, a gift, given to her by her husband. She may kiss him harder, that night. Maher hated the idea. Not that Fatima was besotted, taken or had with money. But she may just realise, that she had it all. A family, a husband and glace of an Alexander McQueen something. Maher would need more, that day, to be deserving of her. His innocent charm could only go so far. He texted her, from Sandton City.

A picture of his baklava.

F -- Looks nice. How was it?

Maher texted, back.

M -- Prefer your stickiness.

There was no response, perhaps she was with her husband.

And on Monday morning, he sat before her at a Greek cafe, another place no one would come. Asad had gone into the office, for the day. And the kids were Raeesa's. Fatima and Asad were going to Dubai tomorrow, for the week, for his audit. The kids had their last week of school holiday, and Fatima decided to go. Maher felt, left out.

They sat in white chairs, baklava and coffee, before them. Untouched. Fatima sat across him, staring at the boy, trying to realize his feelings.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. You just have an aura." he said.

"Of what?" she asked.

"A pretty aura." he said.

Maher stared at her, trying not to whimper like a puppy. Fatima knew, he was feeling something.

"But I'm not doing anything." she said.

"It looks like fireworks, to me." he said.

He was trying to hide a want to cry, by a made up fire show. Because he could only have her like this, like a thief. Like they were cabaret dancers. And he was trying to hide his failing masculinity and nonchalance. And there was a thing in football, called intention neutrality. Never let your opponent know your intention by your lean. And he couldn't let her know, that he loved her.

"We'll be back on Saturday." she said, as if understanding anyway.

"And then what?" he asked.

He didn't just want her in the shadows, anymore. He wanted her in light.

"And thennn... you can turn us swingers, to have me." she said, joking.

Maher was forlorn.

"And until then?" he asked.

Meaning would Fatima be her husband's this week, what if she came back having forgot him.

Fatima stared ahead at him, and raised her hands before him. Placed together, as if here cuff me, I'm yours. Maher stared at her hands, at her eyes, and realized she was serious. And then, he leaned forward and pulled her scarf from her head, playful.

And Maher wrapped it around Fatima's wrists.