Terrorist

her pointy white boots, whereas her fingernails are painted silver and green divided the long way-scratch at his ankles in playful interrogation. These touches from her are wonderfully welcome, washing across his senses with the odors of her hair and scalp and sweat and the velvet abrasion of her voice, close to his ear. He hears in her breath a huskiness with its own tremble. 'I don't want to talk about me,' she tells him. 'That kind of talk scares me.' She must be aware, if less intensely than he, of the congested knot of arousal below his waist, but in obedience to die pact he has imposed upon her she does not touch it. He has never had power over anybody before, not since his mother, without a husband, had to worry about keeping him alive.

He persists, 'What about all that church singing you were doing? How does that fit in?'

'It doesn't. I don't do it any more. My mother doesn't understand why I've dropped out. She says Tylenol is a bad influence. She doesn't know how right she is. Listen: the deal is you can fuck me, but not grill me.'

'I just want to be with you, as close as I can.'

'Oh, boy. I've heard that before. Men, they are all heart. Let's hear about you, then. How's old Allah doing? How do you like being holy, now that school's out and we're in the real world?'

His lips move an inch from her forehead. He has decided to be open witii her, about this thing in his life that his instinct is to protect from everyone, even from Charlie, even from Shaikh Rashid. 'I still hold to the Straight Path,' he tells Joryleen. 'Islam is still my comfort and guide. But-'

'But what, baby?'

'When I turn to Allah and try to think of Him, it is borne in upon me how alone He is, in all the starry space He has willed into existence. In the Qur'an, He is called the Loving, the Self-Subsistent. I used to think of the love; now I'm struck by the self-subsistence, in all that emptiness. People are always thinking of themselves,' he tells Joryleen. 'Nobody thinks of God-if He suffers or not, if He likes being what He is. What does He see in the world, to take any pleasure in it? And to even think of such things, to try to make such pictures of God as a kind of human being, my master the imam would tell me was blasphemy, deserving an eternity of Hellfire.'

'My goodness, what a lot to take on in your own brain. Maybe He gave us each other, so we wouldn't be as alone as He is. That's in the Bible, pretty much.'

'Yeah, but what are we? Smelly animals, really, with a little bunch of animal needs, and shorter lives than turtles.'

This-his mentioning turtles-makes Joryleen laugh; when she laughs, her whole naked body jiggles against his, so he tliinks of all those intestines, and stomach and things, packed in: she has all that inside her, and yet also a loving spirit, breathing against the side of his neck, where God is as close as a vein. She says to him, 'You better get on top of all those weird ideas you have, or they gone to drive you crazy.'

His lips move within an inch of her brow. 'At times I have this yearning to join God, to alleviate His loneliness.' No sooner are the words out of his mouth than he recognizes them as blasphemy: in the twenty-ninth sura it is written, Allah does not need His creatures' help.

'To die, you mean? You're scaring me again, Ahmad. How's that prick been poking me doing? We talk it all away?' She touches him, quickly, expertly. 'No, man, we didn't. He's still there, wanting what he wants. I can't stand it-can't stand the suspense. Don't you do a thing. Allah can blame me. I can take it, I'm just a woman, dirty anyway.' Joryleen puts her hands one on each of his buttocks through the black jeans and by pulling him rhythmically into her pushing softness draws him up and up into a convulsive transformation, a vaulting inversion of his knotted self like that, perhaps, which occurs when the soul passes at death into Paradise.

The two young bodies cling together, panting climbers who have attained a ledge. Joryleen says, 'There, now. You got a mess in your pants but we didn't have to use any scumbag and you're still a virgin for that bride of yours with the head scarf.'

'The hijab. There may never be such a bride.'

'Why you say that? You've got the working parts, and a good nature besides.'

'A feeling,' he answers her. 'You may be the closest to a bride I get.' He lightly accuses her, 'I didn't ask you to do that, making me come.'

'I like to earn my money,' she tells him. He is sorry to feel her relax into conversation, receding from the tight, moist seam that made them one body. 'I don't know where you get that bad feeling from, but that Charlie friend of yours has some sort of game going. Why'd he arrange this hook-up, when you didn't ax for it?'

'He thought it was something I needed. And maybe I did. Thank you, Joryleen. Though, as you said, it was unclean.'

'It's almost like they're fattening you up.'

'Who is, for what?'

'Sugar, I don't know. You heard my advice. Get away from that truck.'

'Suppose I told you to get away from Tylenol?'

'That's not so easy. He's my man.'

Ahmad tries to understand. 'We seek attachments, however unfortunate.'

'You got it.'

The mess in his underpants is drying, growing sticky; still, he resists when she tries to roll out from under his arm. 'Got to go,' Joryleen says.

He hugs her tighter, a little cruelly. 'Have you earned your money?'

'Haven't I? I felt you shoot off, real big.'

He wants to join her in uncleanness. 'We didn't fuck, though. Maybe we should. Charlie would want me to.'

'Getting the idea, huh? Too late this time, Ahmad. Let's keep you pure for now.'

Night has descended outside the furniture store. They are two beds away from the single lit lamp, and by its dim light her face, on the pillow of white chenille, is a black oval, a perfect oval holding its sparkles and the silvery small movements of her lips and eyelids. She is lost to God but is giving her life for another, so that Tylenol, that pathetic bully, can live. 'Do one more thing for me,' Ahmad begs. 'Joryleen, I can't bear to let you go.'

'What kind of thing?'

'Sing to me.'

'Boy. You're a man, all right. Always wanting one more thing.'

'Just a little song. I loved it, in the church, being able to pick your voice out from all the others.'

'And now somebody's taught you how to sweet-talk. I got to sit up. You can't sing lying down. Lying down's for other things.' This was needlessly coarse of her to say. Her breasts there in the light from the lone lamp in that ocean of mattresses have crescents of shadow beneath their rounded weight; she is eighteen, but already gravity tugs them down. He has an urge to reach out and touch the jut of her meat-colored nipples, to pinch them even, since she is a whore and used to worse, and wonders at this itch of cruelty within him, fighting that tenderness which would seduce him away from his innermost loyalty. He that fights for Allah's cause, the twenty-ninth sura says, fights for himself. Ahmad closes his eyes as he sees from the tensing little muscles of her lips, with that delicate welt of flesh that runs around their edges, that she is about to sing.

' 'What a friend we have in Jesus,' ' she croons, quaver-ingly and without the jumping syncopation of the version he heard in church, ' 'all our sins and griefs to bear… ' ' As she sings she reaches out a pale-palmed hand and touches his brow, an upright square brow bent on carrying more faith than most men can bear, and, her fingers with their two-toned nails straying, pinches the lobe of his ear in conclusion. ' '… take it to the Lord in prayer.' '

He watches her briskly put her clothes back on: bra first, then, with a comical wriggle, her skimpy underpants; next, her snug jersey, short enough to let a strip of belly show, and the scarlet miniskirt. She sits on the edge of the bed to put on her long-toed boots, over some thin white socks he hadn't noticed her taking off. To protect the leather from her sweat, and her feet from the smell.

What time is it? The dark comes earlier every day. Not much past seven; he has been with her less than an hour. His mother might be home, waiting to feed him. She has more time for him, lately. Reality calls: he must get up and smooth any shadow of their shapes out of the plastic-wrapped mattress and restore the carpet and cushions to their places downstairs and lead Joryleen among the tables and armchairs, past the desks and the water cooler and the time clock, and let them both out the back door into the night, busy with headlights less now of workers coming home than of people out hunting for something, for dinner or for love. Her singing and his coming have left him so sleepy that the thought, as he walks the dozen blocks home, of going to bed and never waking up has no