A part-time prostitute II

Though living under the same roof, I and her only meet in the evenings given my timetable and her working hours. I honestly didn't have the intention to socialize, neither with her nor with our other flatmates, but well. She often knocked on my door inviting me to share a meal - she is a very good tajine cook - or a glass of tea. Sometimes I refused, sometimes I accepted. She wondered, on my first visit to her room, whether I minded her smoking. I said I didn't as long as we kept the door and window open, I hate it when my hair stinks.

Our talks varied from gossips, to weather forecast, food, shopping, her job, my school. Yes I was curious to know her story but I didn't fish for it, simply because I, I actually don't know. Eventually,  one evening, she deliberately spoke about her origins, her childhood, her friends, about everything. She is from the region of Meknes, orphan and has two brothers, both married, one living in the same city and the other living in another. “I used to live with one of my brother, his wife and their little kid. Things started to go south, I no longer could see eye to eye with his wife. We fought more often. My brother stayed neutral. Fed up as I was, I rented a room of my own. I started working in a shoe factory. The salary is low but I am just fine.” 

Absentmindedly, she continued:“I work from early morning to 4 P.m. At the time I was living with my brother, instead of going home, I used to go to a café, to eat and smoke in peace. I just wanted peace. I didn’t eat with them, I only went there to sleep at night. Yet, I more than helped financially. His wife is ungracious. My brother was aware of what was happening but he kept his mouth shut. That’s all I can say.”

I could tell she is far off to the time when her parents were alive, when she lived under their wings, protected, unharmed, worried about doing the dishes or playing with her friends only. I could tell. Her eyes looked sad and tearful. Her face aged ten years. A puff from a cigarette placed between manicured and polished nails brought her back to the now; Then she would look at my untouched, now-cold tea glass and my half-bitten Moroccan pastry, and make a joke about how I am dishonoring my Sahraoui roots by not drinking the tea.

........................To be continued