Warm, so warm. Warm and smooth, her body was laced with the soft smell of jasmine, which seeped into her clothes. The clothes, in turn, bled into her skin, the new die leaving delicately smeared traces where she had sweat. He laughed when she observed that when she arrived her clothes were an affront, a barrier for him to tear down and discard, freeing the flesh, but when she left, he begged for even the smallest scrap to be left behind. And she would, often handing him her scarf that he would toy with between his fingers. The occasional jasmine scent triggered a picture of her; back arched and the wires of her muscles taught, sweat traced with dust, each loaded moan and grunt echoing from her mouth.
Every time she left, he would troop to the open window and watch her from the balcony, tracking her fighting through the crowds beneath until she became lost among them or passed out of sight. There was no peace when she was gone, neither in his soul nor within the space around him. The family above banged blackened metal pans. In the streets below, traders battled for custom, their cries rattling above the heads of the jostling flow. Old men sat entrenched in doorways, shelling out hard-fought wisdom. Unmuzzled dogs screamed in anger at the hovering sun.
Sometimes, another noise would claw it's way above the others like a rat scrabbling up rubble. It was a deep, menacing roar. It swallowed all other sound, not in volume but in presence, its black hands folding all words and breath and movement into its dark shroud. The heads turned upwards, looking for shadows where normally there are none to be found. Hands sought other hands. On the balcony he clenched the scarf tight within his fist. He wore her love like armour
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