The house is finally quiet, the last prayer of the day said. In the silence, my mind doesn't go to my missing husband or my growing daughter. It goes to the memory of a stranger's hands on me in a crowded market years ago, before I was married. The shock of a man's palm cupping my ass through my abaya, the rough fabric of his thobe brushing against me, the way my pussy clenched, not in fear, but with a dark, thrilling pulse of want. I should have been outraged, but all I could feel was the wetness soaking my underwear, the secret knowledge that I was a woman who could be ignited by a taboo touch. Sometimes I still dream of that anonymous hand, wondering what would have happened if I'd turned around and guided it under my clothes, let him finger my cunt right there in the spice-scented air. The guilt is a familiar weight, but so is the ache.