I Can't Think Straight by Shamim Sarif

order room service for us?’ the girl suggested.
    ‘Okay’.
    And now, instead of getting up and using the phone across the room, by the chair, Leyla reached across Tala for the receiver that lay next to her, by the bed. Why did she have to do that? Tala wondered. The sudden, fresh scent of Leyla’s skin and hair distracted her and she found herself staring at the tanned, brown arm that stretched before her, and the long fingers that closed around the telephone. Tala felt herself lean forward, just slightly, felt her lips touch the arm, at the valley of the elbow, touch the cool, clean taste of Leyla’s skin against her mouth. She felt the arm tense slightly, but it did not draw away. She saw the phone drop back onto the table, felt Leyla’s other hand come up to caress her head and her cheek and she closed her eyes against any other thought, so that there was only this sensation, the touch of Leyla’s hand on her face, the recent memory of her skin still burning her mouth.
    ‘Look at me,’ Leyla was whispering. ‘Look.’
    She looked. But the movement brought their faces too close together, and Tala’s eyes held the crushed liquidity of Leyla’s gaze for a long moment, but then she dropped her glance down to the girl’s mouth, the lips slightly parted, and she felt herself move forward again, felt her own lips brush Leyla’s softly, very softly, a touch that she felt in every part of her body, arousing a desire she had denied at every moment. She pressed harder against Leyla, covering her mouth with her own till she felt the delicate trace of her tongue against hers. Softly, she moaned, a sound she had no control over, but she did not speak, for there was nothing more to say.
    All she could feel was Leyla’s hands on her, slipping gently beneath her shirt, caressing her back and sides and sliding up to her breasts, cupping them, her thumb touching the nipples that strained stiffly against her bra. And Leyla’s mouth on her neck, weaving a soft line with her lips up to Tala’s ear where she could hear her breathing, quick and breathless. Leyla’s fingers were coaxing open the buttons of Tala’s shirt now, pulling it down over her shoulders, pulling down her bra, and Tala fell back onto the bed, with Leyla on top of her, her tongue tracing a path down to her breasts, her own hands moving over Leyla’s back and down, caressing a silken line between her thighs. Now Leyla gave an audible sigh, an intake of breath as Tala reached the centre of her, and together they began to move against each other in a rhythm that neither had to search for.
    Pacing the uninspired carpet of her hotel room, Lamia listened to Reema’s voice, surprisingly clear on the mobile she held pressed to her ear.
    ‘I hope you got her colourful clothes?’ Reema demanded.
    ‘Tala thinks grey is a colour. And they got bored of shopping.’
    It was a calculated move, this last sentence. Lamia bit at her thumbnail as she paced, glancing up at the muted television for support. Reema caught the reference at once.
    ‘They?’
    ‘Her friend is here with her. Leyla.’
    ‘The Indian Jewess?’
    Lamia frowned, confused. ‘The Indian. I didn’t know she was Jewish. Anyway, I guess it’s nice for Tala to have such a close friend.’
    ‘Hmmm,’ replied Reema. ‘Good thing she’s coming back soon for the wedding.’
    ‘That’s the other thing…’ Lamia paused, hesitating. She could contrive to convince herself that she had only thrown Leyla’s name into the conversation by accident, not knowing it might concern her mother. But this next step would be a more active decision on her part, to give away information that Tala had shared with her confidentially. As a sister.
    ‘Lamia?’ coaxed Reema, at the other end of the phone. ‘You know sometimes Tala needs help to see what’s best for her.’ Lamia could hear an extended exhalation of breath, pictured her mother in her dressing room in Amman, smoking, waiting. Waiting.
    Lamia sat