[rps] sahel
[suq el attarin]
Ochre. The lustrous tang of spice names - saffron, fenugreek - evokes their smells, their vibrant colours piled in brass bowls. Temptation prickles at the need to sink his hand in the barrel of bright mustard, to stain his skin with yelloworange, to blotch his white cotton, muslim-decent sleeves with the muddy scent of henna. The seller presses packets in his arms, but Orlando doesn't know Arabic for I want to taste.
Cross-legged under the Rabat sun there is the same peppery prickle; the swipe of Josh's thumb feels like roughly-ground cumin. Lingers like paprika, like his cinnamon blink.
[rue souika]
The desert has settled under his skin, permanent grit unmoved by the cool rosewater interior. Orlando eats dates and almonds methodically, unable to pinpoint his anxiety until it walks in and sits across from him, fingers splayed out against the mosaic table, leans forward.
"No beer?" Josh mouths at him conspiratorially, outraged. Orlando is about to slander American insularity when he realises Josh is taking the piss, and there is a sandy weight in his mouth that won't be washed away by the mint tea.
"I have to--" Orlando starts, but Josh is looking past him, his mouth twitching.
"Yeah, same."
[salat-ul-maghrib]
Bleached light filters through a fretwork door into the dim alley. Josh looks at his watch, but the time itself is meaningless; they need the mullah's call, the scratchy ululation that Orlando thinks is now intrinsically linked in his mind with the olive-soft taste of Josh.
When it comes Orlando is already backed against the wall, waitingwaitingneeding, his hands hovering at Josh's hips, so close but not touching while they trade filthy whispers.
So fucking appropriate, the call to prayers. The sound makes Josh push forward, makes Orlando murmur in Josh's mouth, makes the desert trickle away through his fingers.