Perfumes and Prayers

The marble floors

Windsor, 1948

It wasn't easy being a very long way from home, but I guess grief makes you make rash decisions. Once the only guardian I had, died due to cholera, I wanted to be as far away from the pain as possible. In a blur, I'm working for a wealthy British American family. They weren't exactly British, but they had the citizenship.
  It was my second week working for them and they seemed decent to say the least. Today the hustle and bustle was extra. The older woman who I was more than grateful to be very nice to me, seemed very excited about the arrival of someone 'special'.
She hustled and bustled around the place making sure everything was in order.

Normal POV

Ma'ai secretly likes how her caramel skin contrasts with the marble floors. Ma'ai's duties were clear: dusting the mahogany banisters, arranging fresh flowers, and ensuring the silverware gleamed. The clanging and clinging of plates and cutlery is a pattern in her ears.
Jameson stepped inside—a tempest of contradictions. His dark blonde. His eyes, a deep, fathomless green, hold secrets and longing. Standing at 6'1", he boasts a lean torso, defined abs, and a musculature that sets him apart.
When Jameson enters a room, it's as if the air shifts, and the world tilts on its axis. His tailored suit whispered of privilege, yet his eyes held a longing that transcended borders. Lady Eleanor's eyes lights up. Ma'ai hears the older maids whisper to her.
"That's her son" the maid chuckles. "The poor woman acts like the sun rises and sets on this one."

Ma'ai servers them and his eyes follows her figure. Taking in every curve and contour with a gulp. He doesn't focus on what his mother is saying. He can't put his finger on why he feels this way. Jameson's gaze traced the delicate curve of Ma'ai's waist, the gentle sway of her hips as she moved. The crystal chandeliers above seemed to dim, their brilliance eclipsed by the radiance of this Nigerian girl. Lady Eleanor's voice faded into a distant hum—a mere backdrop to the symphony playing out before him.

---

He'd been raised in privilege, groomed for duty, yet Ma'ai defied categorization. Her skin held stories—of sun-kissed days by the Benue River - he imagined, of mangoes plucked from ancestral trees. Jameson's pulse quickened; he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"Why?" he wondered silently. Why did this housemaid—a mere servant—ignite a fire within him?
As Lady Eleanor prattled on about social engagements and family obligations, Jameson's mind wandered. Ma'ai—the Nigerian girl who stirred something primal—had become his North Star. He longed to explore uncharted territories with her, to break free from the scripted life he'd known.

And so, in that moment, as Ma'ai refilled his teacup, he'd have her. It was quick, it was fast, but he knew. He knew she was the breakthrough he sought after for so long.

Lady Eleanor's voice faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the symphony of longing that played within Jameson. He wondered what it would be like to touch her skin, to trace the contours of her face, to unravel the secrets hidden behind her eyes.
Ma'ai, for her part, felt the weight of his gaze. It was more than mere curiosity; it was hunger, a hunger that transcended borders and defied social norms. She had seen men like Jameson before—privileged, entitled—but there was something different about him. His longing mirrored her own, a shared ache that drew them together across marble floors and mahogany banisters.

Jameson's next move is deliberate. He excuses himself from the dining room, claiming a sudden headache. Ma'ai watches as he disappears down the hallway, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors.