In the Interlude

Chapter 12 - Morning Delight

Tom offered his arm as they stepped outside, the midday sun high and shining in a bright blue sky. They stopped at the sidewalk, looking at each other. He smiled at her and she smiled back, wondering what he was thinking, what he saw in her.

"Well, I had a great time. Thank you. But I need to get going. Check out before noon and all," she said.

"I could walk you to your hotel? I mean, if you're walking there of course."

"Sure."

Tom and Aïcha put their sunglasses on and walked side by side. His powerful arms occasionally touched her shoulders and her skin tingled under his touch.

If it was up to him, he would rather hold her hand but it wasn't the right time nor the place to do so. He needed to tread gently with Aïcha, he knew that by now. Instead, he focused all his attention on her, asking her about her daughter. He watched her face light up whenever she talked about Mia. Love and pride echoed in her voice. It reminded him of his own sister and how her tone would lighten every time she talked about her daughter, his niece. He only left London a couple of days ago, but he was already missing his home and family.

On their way, they passed by different shops and stores but there was one place that captured Aïcha's interest. "God, look at these!" She touched his wrist and pointed at a window full of traditional Moroccan rugs.

"I love these. They're so colourful and full of life." She turned to him. "You know, they're called Boucherioute as in scraps of clothing."

"Bochar - what? I'm sorry. I'm afraid my knowledge of Moroccan is limited to thank you. Choukrane? Is that it?" She nodded and they both laughed at Tom's horrid pronunciation.

Aïcha turned her attention again to the rugs on display. "The story behind these rugs is incredible. They are traditionally made by Berber women, often from very modest households. They use recycled scraps of old clothing, wool and textiles and weave them together to create these beautiful pieces of art. There is no definite pattern, every woman will weave through her rug creating the design as she goes."

"Amazing! I love the contrast between the discarded material used to make these and the richness of the final composition. Truly beautiful."

"You know, until recently, no self-respected rug seller would even display these! But for me, it's more than a rug. It's a story about the resilience of the Moroccan woman. They often live in the mountains in difficult situations. Yet, they'll do everything to make their homes brighter for their families. Using these discarded pieces, bit by bit, to make something beautiful, that they could even sell later to buy some food or clothes for their kids when needed."

As they continued walking to the hotel, Aïcha talked some more about these women and the deep respect she had for them. Tom was fascinated by the subject and felt Aïcha opening up to him more than she ever did during their last two encounters. She talked about her own grandmother who had lost her husband in her thirties and had to take care of her multiple children, including Aïcha's mum. She never wanted to get married again and her life revolved around her kids. The sacrifices she made were unimaginable, Aïcha told him.

"I had the privilege of experiencing first hand her fierceness and love. I loved her very much."

"She sounds like an extraordinary woman," said Tom.

"Oh yes she was, may her soul rest in peace."

The conversation steered to other family members as Tom talked about his own parents, sisters, his Scottish roots from his father's side, and even mentioned his great-great uncle Tom, who died fighting in the war when has was twenty-one.

As they arrived at the hotel, Tom turned to her. He rubbed the back of his neck and seemed about to say something but decided against it at the last second.

"Well, thank you for walking me to my hotel. I really had a great time," Aïcha said with a smile.  

"The pleasure was all mine. And let me tell you, I'm very much looking to carpeing the diem with you!" They both laughed. It was their private joke now. "Can I call you in the next couple of days? I have this idea but need to check something first," he added. "Deal?"

"Deal."

She kissed him on both cheeks - French style - thinking it would be easier than to deal with the aftermath of one of his hugs. But damn, his tangerine and citrus scent caught her nose nevertheless, making her weak in the knees.

Aïcha turned towards the hotel and was almost out of reach when Tom caught her wrist and gently pulled her back. Her heart drumming in her ears, she watched as he leaned in to brush a strand of hair from her face and press a feathery kiss against her temple.

"I can't wait to see you," he whispered in her ear.

Her cheeks heated. At a loss of words, she could only mumble a "goodbye, Tom" before taking the stairs two-by-two and disappearing into the lobby.

Tom stood there, watching her leave. Missing her company already.

She quickly made her way back to her air-conditioned room and fell onto the bed, arms stretched on either side, exhausted as much by the walk in the sun as by the stirred feelings and the proximity to Tom. But she didn't have the luxury to dwell on all this. A two-hour-and-a-half drive was awaiting her.

She grabbed her phone and called Mia to meet her in the parking lot. Seconds later, it pinged signalling an incoming text. It was from Tom.

Thank you for this
delightful morning.
We should do that again
sometime soon.
Have a safe trip home.

Smiling, she held the phone in her hand, contemplating what to say. So looking forward to it, she finally texted back, a thousand butterflies fluttering in her stomach.