Chapter 9: Bathroom Mirror, Spread and Fucked
The bathroom was still steamy when Mohammed stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips, his skin still damp and flushed from the cold water. He could hear them in the kitchen—the low murmur of their voices, the clink of pots and plates, the sizzle of something hitting hot oil.
He walked barefoot down the narrow hallway, his wet feet leaving faint prints on the tile. The apartment was small enough that every sound traveled—every word, every laugh, every sigh. He'd learned that the first week they moved in.
The kitchen was cramped—barely big enough for one person, let alone two—but Mahra and Zainab managed. Mahra stood at the stove, stirring something in a dented pot, her jalabiya still hanging open. Zainab sat at the small table in the corner, her tea glass refilled, her eyes on her daughter.
Neither of them looked up when he entered.
"Smells good," he said.
"It's just rice," Mahra said. "And the chicken from yesterday."
"The chicken from yesterday was good."
"It was dry."
"So add more sauce."
She glanced over her shoulder at him—a quick, amused look—and then went back to stirring. Zainab took a sip of her tea. The silence stretched.
Mohammed pulled out the chair across from Zainab and sat down. The table was small—their knees almost touched—and he could smell the cardamom rising from her glass, mixing with the garlic and saffron coming from the stove.
"Long day?" Zainab asked.
"Long enough."
"The client in Al Barsha?"
"He wanted a discount."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I'd think about it."
Zainab nodded slowly. She set her glass down, her fingers wrapping around it, her nails painted a faded red. The color was chipped at the edges, worn away by time and dishwater.
"You should have told him no," she said.
"I know."
"Men like that—you give them an inch, they take the whole street."
Mahra laughed from the stove. "Mama, he's not a landlord. He's a client."
"Same thing."
Mohammed smiled. He couldn't help it. There was something about Zainab—something blunt and unflinching—that he'd grown to appreciate over the years. She didn't pretend. She didn't soften. She just said what she thought and moved on.
"Mohammed," Mahra said. "Taste this."
She held out a spoon, her hand cupped underneath to catch the drips. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and she slid the spoon between his lips.
The rice was hot. Buttery. Perfect.
"Good," he said.
"Just good?"
"Very good."
She smiled and turned back to the stove. He watched her—the curve of her back, the way her hair fell over her shoulders, the way the jalabiya hung open just enough to show the side of her breast. She didn't care. She never cared. This was her home, her space, her kingdom.
Zainab was watching him watch her.
He felt it before he saw it—that prickle at the back of his neck, that sense of being observed. He looked up. Her eyes were steady. Unreadable.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
Mahra snorted. "Mama, leave him alone."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing the thing with your face."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look at him like you're deciding something."
Zainab picked up her tea and took a long, slow sip. The liquid was still steaming.
"I'm always deciding something," she said.
The rice finished cooking a few minutes later. They ate at the small table—the three of them crammed together, elbows touching, plates overlapping. The chicken was dry, just like Mahra said, but the sauce helped. The rice was perfect. Zainab talked about the market, about the wilted cucumbers, about the new family that had moved into the apartment downstairs. Mahra talked about a show she'd been watching, some Turkish drama with too many episodes and not enough plot. Mohammed ate and listened and let the warmth of the food settle in his stomach.
It was normal. Easy. The kind of dinner they'd had a hundred times before.
But something was different.
He could feel it—a shift in the air, a current running underneath the conversation. Zainab kept looking at him. Not with anger. Not with judgment. Just... looking. Like she was waiting for something. Like she knew something he didn't.
After dinner, Mahra cleared the plates. Zainab stood up, stretched, and announced she was going to take a shower. Mohammed watched her walk down the hallway—her full hips swaying, her house dress clinging to her thighs—and then he turned to Mahra.
"What was that about?"
"What?"
"Your mother. At dinner."
Mahra shrugged. She was rinsing the plates, her hands covered in soap. "She's always like that."
"No, she's not."
"She is."
"Mahra."
She turned off the tap. Dried her hands on a towel. Looked at him.
"She's adjusting," she said. "You know that."
"To what?"
"To us. To this." She gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the walls, at everything. "She didn't expect to live with us. She didn't expect to see..." She trailed off.
"To see what?"
"You know what."
He did.
The bathroom incident. The doorway. The way Zainab had stood there, tea in hand, watching her daughter on her knees. The way she'd said "don't stop on my account" like she was commenting on the weather.
"I thought she was fine with it," he said.
"She is fine with it. Or she will be. It's just—" Mahra sighed. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. "She's from a different generation. A different country. She grew up in Tehran, in a house with four brothers and a father who didn't let her speak at dinner. She got married at eighteen. Had me at twenty. Spent the next twenty years being told what to do, what to wear, what to think."
Mohammed leaned against the doorframe. "And now?"
"And now she's here. Living with us. Watching us. Doing whatever she wants for the first time in her life." Mahra smiled—a small, sad smile. "She doesn't know how to handle it."
"So she watches."
"She observes. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Mahra didn't answer. She pushed off the counter, walked over to him, and pressed her palms flat against his chest. Her hands were still warm from the dishwater.
"Give her time," she said. "She'll figure it out."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then she'll keep watching." Mahra rose on her toes and kissed him—soft, quick, the kind of kiss that promised more later. "Now go sit down. I'll make tea."
He went.
The living room was small—a couch, a TV, a rug that had seen better days. He sat down and stared at the blank screen. The apartment was quiet now. He could hear the shower running—Zainab, probably—and the clink of cups in the kitchen. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from his brother in Tehran. He ignored it.
A few minutes later, Mahra appeared with two glasses of tea. She handed him one and sat down beside him, her body curling into his side, her head on his shoulder.
"She's going to be in there for a while," she said.
"I know."
"That gives us time."
"For what?"
She looked up at him. That smile again—the one that meant trouble. The one that meant she was about to do something he wasn't expecting.
"I want to try something," she said.
"What kind of something?"
She didn't answer. She just took his tea from his hand, set it on the floor beside hers, and climbed into his lap. Her jalabiya had fallen open again—or maybe it had never been closed—and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his towel.
"Remember what we did in the bathroom?" she asked.
"Which time?"
"Earlier. When I was on my knees."
He remembered. The tile. The taste of her mouth. The way she'd looked up at him with those dark, knowing eyes.
"I remember."
"I want to do it again."
"There's no sink in here."
"There's a couch."
He laughed—a short, surprised sound—and then she kissed him. Deep and slow and deliberate, her tongue sliding against his, her hands tangling in his hair. He kissed her back. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then the bare skin of her thighs.
She pulled back just long enough to speak.
"Stand up," she said.
He stood.
She slid off his lap and onto her knees. The carpet was rough beneath her, worn thin in patches, but she didn't seem to notice. She reached up and pulled the towel away, let it fall to the floor, and then she leaned forward.
Her mouth was warm. Wet. Perfect.
He closed his eyes. Let his head fall back. The apartment was silent now—the shower had stopped, the tea was cooling on the floor—and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic noise of her mouth working him.
He didn't hear the footsteps.
Didn't notice the bathroom door opening.
Didn't see Zainab standing in the hallway, her hair wrapped in a towel, her house dress replaced by a thin cotton nightgown that clung to her damp skin.
But Mahra did.
She pulled off, just for a moment, and looked over her shoulder.
Zainab was watching.
She didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just stood there with her arms crossed under her breasts, her eyes fixed on her daughter—on her knees, on the living room floor, her mouth wet and her hand wrapped around her husband's cock.
Mahra smiled.
"Join us?" she asked.
The words hung in the air. Mohammed's eyes snapped open. He turned his head.
Zainab's expression didn't change. That same mask—flat, unreadable, carved from stone.
But something flickered behind her eyes. Something dark and curious and hungry.
She took a step forward.
"Not tonight," she said.
And then she turned and walked back down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the tile.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Mohammed looked down at Mahra. She was still smiling.
"She's thinking about it," she said.
"About what?"
"About saying yes."
He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what to feel. But Mahra didn't give him time to figure it out. She took him back into her mouth—deeper this time, faster—and he stopped thinking altogether.
The tea went cold on the floor.
The apartment was quiet.
And somewhere down the hallway, behind a closed door, Zainab lay awake in the dark.