Another romantic episode (Fiction)

The Bellydancer

by Susan Abraham


She saw him across the road, somewhere on the weather-beaten streets of Amman.

The air was filled with the overpowering smell of the cheroot. Old burly men huddled in haphazard groups and scrambled untidily together on shop pavements to gossip and chat. Some stood cocooned in shadowy corners to hide from the painful midday sun.

They spoke together in noisy whispers, their voices rising and dying at a mismatched tempo that spelt the usual camaraderie. Occasionally, someone coughed violently.

They also drank strong milk tea with loud slurps and pronounced greedy licks of satisfaction as a reward to a nearby hawker.

As she fled past, they stopped silently to stare if not a little furtively, up at her brazen, tired beauty that masqueraded kohl-rimmed eyes and wide tell-tale rings.

A big wipe and slap across their wet mouths and slap again this way and that till every last drop of the sweet warm liquid had stopped dribbling down their fat chins and melted away into a forgotten oblivion.

She had long grown used to ancient habits.

Hopefully, the moment told of no secrets like how her heart had been snatched to where he now stood with arms crossed, leaning against the battered wall of a tiny Christian bookshop that lay a block away from the post office.

There was no way she could avoid him.

Today of all days. She simply had to post her urgent note to Abu Dhabi. Of course, at this time of day, she felt compelled to cover-up totally, bearing the innocent disguise of a tragic nun.

Still, all she could think of was how the rhythm of a husky melody locked in its Arabian drawl, had swayed her body into a rocking cradle the night before.

Of how its drumbeats had tamed her skin to its swollen desire, commanding her gyrating obedient flesh backwards and forwards to the swinging beats and the loud applause of the crowded, squatting crowd.

And how like ripples the folds from layers of soft cream had teased the welcoming beads of sweat with clear adoration. The makebelieve pearls had begun to gather furiously on her body, making her skin look like a slippery slide; wet and enticing to touch.

Her tall, large figure with its raised hands made a magnificent twist as she rolled her hips round and round, like smooth, shiny marbles and encassed with all the dizzying power of a carousel.

Surely, she seduced the unseen with more daring than a gypsy dancer. Polished and bouncy, her round, falling breasts, well-soaked in a hard jewelled bra, understood the language of the strange, sensuous music that would leap them to great heights in the watching imagination.

Amidst the hot burning lights in the crowded room, her nipples would hibernate to rest, wait and watch for her lover's moment.

In the meantime, her snowy curves would perform their magic tricks without complaint.

Swishing to the same meticulous speed as the long shimmery swaths of fabric that tickled her thighs without warning, her skin would whip her own body into such a frenzy; she may have fallen down and curled herself up like a heap of alluring sheen.

Already even now, she could feel in that desirable premature way, his long smooth fingers run like rivulets down her legs.

They were on a mission to grab her weary feet with such force and to caress her sore toes with equal tenderness. Yes, later he would kiss her toes one by one with a lingering amusment, until she fell asleep.

And so now, once more she would pounce on the wide, empty floor that allowed her to enter into battle with her own sensual prowress. She would slow down to a caterpillar crawl suddenly, at odd moments, to entice and lure her audience, beckoning them to an electrifying sexuality.

And as she swung and danced about the room with pretended gaiety she would think not only of his eyes; the mood of his smile and the shadow of his heart and the strength of his poweful arms as he would later come to her room, somewhere in the dead of night.

He would throw on her bedspread a little gift. Her sheets were so soft, they appeared to be made of fur. This time she hoped for a vial of a cherished musky scent.

She would lie quietly like a stillborn, incapable of movement. Like an infant, she would wait for a pair of familiar protective arms to carry on from where she had left over, in the club an hour ago. And then, she would forget her life as it really was.


Picture credit: Tribal art