Abdel Ghani was a bachelor who was always amazed when he saw a man in the street or the souk accompanied by an ugly wife. He would ask himself: “Are men struck by a temporary blindness and cured the moment they emerge from marriage courts shackled to wives who are like permanent blindness?”
He liked to imagine the one and only woman he would marry: tall, dark, and svelte, laughing or smiling only for him, with two big, black eyes and breasts like apples or pomegranates. She would go with him wherever he went, modestly dressed and with the same air of seriousness. Everyone who saw him would be filled with envy.
But the woman he married was not like that at all. She was short, fat and had fair skin, small eyes, and no hips. Yet no sooner did he come near her voice, her scent, and her polished, shining skin than he saw her as dark and beautiful, and exciting enough to be devoured without delay. His body felt alive and hot, and his desires raged, writhing to be released from their prison. And he did release them and, like them, he raged, finding it strange that he should be jailer and prisoner at the same time.
His wife took care every morning to accompany him to the door and say goodbye. One morning she gave him an ambiguous yet eager smile and asked him in a soft voice not to stay late at work that evening. Abdel Ghani left his place of work at noon on the pretext of suffering from a severe cold. He rushed home, only to find his wife on her hands and knees cleaning the tiles of the kitchen floor and wearing a short dress unsuitable for respectable ladies. He opened his mouth to accuse and reproach but praised her instead, suggesting she buy a shorter dress that would relieve her of the boring routine of putting on clothes and taking them off. He also offered to help her with the housework, but she refused. She reminded him she was a woman who did not care for fashion, and there was only one task for a man. She then bent over again to resume wiping the tiles with violent, rhythmic strokes.