Jalaja

Jalaja felt his arms in her tresses. She popped out of her little air bungalow…she lay there, like a water nymph, her long black hair flowing over the silken sheets. He touched her again and she giggled as a wave of goose pimples shone like a bejeweled morning pond on her tan. She opened her little eyes to see the man she had made love to. He smiled back at her. She lay still, her nose ring glinting as she breathed in the familiar jasmined air. She closed her eyes and dreamt again.

She saw herself on a pretty palanquin, borne by burly young men with twirled moustaches. She saw the rows of people stare at her veiled face. She chewed on a foreign fruit while she passed the trees. Everything belonged to her. The people, their hearts, the fruits, their trees, the jewels, their shines, the smiles, the tears, the air and its flavours. She belonged there. They belonged to her.

She opened her eyes again, as she heard the door closing. He always had to leave early. She smelt the air. It was still dark. She draped the silk clumsily as it slid off her sunshine skin. The cows mooed in the distance, as their owners tugged at their udders. It was still dark.

Jalaja bunned her hair. It smelt of the same jasmine. A tear trickled down her little eye. She sniffed it away and counted the notes by her drapes.