Dakhmeh by Naveed Noori

So why did I come back?
Life here has not been a bed of roses.

For the answer to that we will need to talk to a man (with a striking resemblance to myself ) standing on the corner of Jordan street waiting for a ride. I can see him standing there, in a pitch of nervousness and anticipation. He is cleanly shaven and showered, his black hair cropped short, his clothes freshly ironed. His brown eyes try to appear calm as he glances at each passing car. Excuse me sir, could you tell me why you have come back? That’s a funny question, that’s exactly what she asked. She? Yes, don’t you remember Jzaleh? Jzaleh? Yes, I was standing on the corner of Jordan waiting for a ride. .is was the second time I stood there, and this time it was no accident. How long had it been since I had female contact? Sure, there was the occasional breasts brushing against you when you went through the door, or the extra pressure of a sumptuous body when the bus swayed to one side, though one had to make sure one obtained a spot in the back or there was no hope for action. But these tactics, even when successful, only led to more frustration. I had seen men groping women on crowded buses, when the sheer numbers ensured that no clean line could separate the men in the front from the women in the back. Usually there would be a scream, a slap, or a loud complaint, but once in a while the recipient did not seem to mind. I had become quite adept at reading the monteau’s curves, imagining what pleasures lay beneath. In the West, little imagination is needed, but here, the face and eyes take on tremendous importance, as does the cut of a monteau. The chaadoor reveals nothing about the body and rather too much of the dogmatic mind, but there is something to behold in the finer cut of a monteau. The curves, so carefully covered, still trigger a primal need that cannot be denied. Add a bit of a strut and a dash of perfume, the glimpse of an ankle or a wrist, and that is enough to drive any man crazy.