A stand-alone story following from others in the series.
Please enjoy yourself!
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Slipping from the bed before sunrise without waking them, I left the bedroom, went down to the kitchen and made myself a mug of tea. I took it out onto the veranda facing east, settled into lotus on a mat, listened to the surf and awaited the arrival of a new day.
So much had happened. Although it was still too dark to see, I could feel the rings on my finger. A new life, a new way to love, a new tomorrow.
A gradual redness on the dark horizon spoke the arriving day.
We had returned back to our island the day before yesterday. One of the corporations bidding on some of his designs had actually offered him the use of their corporate jet, which took us directly, with but two refuelling stops, all the way from Stockholm to Tahiti, whence we could hop a puddle-jumper to our island.
It had been much, much better than an airline, but we were all still exhausted when we arrived. Yesterday was essentially spent in recovery.
A sliver of fire lifted into sight and I could gradually begin to see my wedding gift to him.
A basso snore came from somewhere above and behind me. The men were still recuperating. Ladies do not of course snore, but there had been considerable 'resonation' in the higher octaves since our return...
I sipped my tea as the sun turned yellow with its rising and ran one finger over the intricate designs on my skin. I kept thinking I should feel something, a lump maybe. A line. Something.
My mother had been puzzled at my insistence on long sleeves and a high neckline when we went shopping in Paris for my wedding dress. Knowing our customary state of undress here on the island, she knew that the word 'modesty' wasn't in my lexicon. Eventually I let her in on my secret, the result of much texting and many emails between my lady friends and I, all sworn to total secrecy.
My favourite aunt had made the final arrangements in Stockholm and, the morning after we landed there, had informed my groom-to-be that - old custom - she was taking me out of his hands and that he wouldn't see me until the wedding. Meanwhile, for the next two days, he could either visit his business partners on the continent or just chill with Mark, his best man. No questions, thank you.
I'd myself never heard of such a custom, but we were counting on his believing her. We needed the two days.
The sun was eased above the horizon and light began to flood into the villa.
There is a substantial Arab community in Sweden and my aunt had tapped into their skills. My aunt had not told either of us where she was taking me; it turned out to be another suite on a different floor of the hotel. We were met there by an aged and stout Arab lady with shrewd eyes and two younger ones - daughters, nieces or apprentices. They were there to exercise their art, using me as their canvas.
Decorating a bride for her wedding is virtually universal.
Decorating
a bride for her wedding is a specialty of India and the Middle East and the team was among the best in the city.
I entered the suite wearing a full-length mink, my man's wedding gift to me. I would leave it two days later wearing under it my wedding gift to him, in henna.
The suite was soon filled with the chatter of the three artists, my friend Kaarin, my aunt and myself. Designs had been already been arranged.
Nudity is not an Arab custom, but there were none but women present and you can't paint a canvas in its wrappings. While Kaarin and my aunt remained dressed, I was soon ushered into a shower for a thorough scrub, dried off and then escorted to a portable massage table.
Henna is applied as lines of paste squeezed out from a small cone, like icing decorating a cake. It needs to stay in place until it dries before being carefully removed. The longer it stays in place, the darker and more longer-lasting the dye effect. Putting it on takes hours and waiting for it to fully dry takes as long.
It is, in other words, a lengthy process. The traditional rôle of friends and family is to keep the bride amused so that she won't fidget and smear the drying designs. Cooking for her is traditional but the hotel had 24/7 room service and that would do. In deference to our artists, it was going to be a fruit juice, tea and coffee time.
The rising sun began to warm my face. I could feel it on my nipples. Barring snores, the rest of the house was still silent.
Traditional designs focus on a bride's hands and feet. I had wanted more than that; I wanted to dazzle him completely on our wedding night and, although long sleeves, a long skirt and gloves could cover much, we'd decided to go minimalist on my feet and hands, getting more detailed and complex on my body. I had asked for a sun symbol on one palm and a heart on the other, with vines, flowers and leaves elsewhere.
The old woman did layout and the critical parts. The younger women traded off between filling in the details and preparing the paste and filling the little paper cones used to dispense it.
The paste tickled a little as it dried. My nipples reacted to it and poked to attention. The old woman looked me in the eyes and smiled; I clearly wasn't her first bride.
With every touch, I grew more excited. Once the paste was picked off, the pattern would last for several weeks.
By the end of two days, a vine twisted and curled from each wrist, up my arm, down my side, bum and my leg and ended at the foot. Flowers and leaves embellished the design. A large round flower centred the pattern on my back. Vines twisted around each breast, curling around my nipples. A lotus flower grew from my groin, linked again with vines. My lover's initials formed a monogram on one of its petals.
Some designs can be exceptionally complex. I had asked for simple, bold patterns and the trio had certainly delivered. The dark paste looked spectacular and the final design when it came off was everything I had wanted.
Behind me in the villa, I heard the first sounds of movement. I slipped back inside and lit up the kettle. First order of the day, coffee for six.
