Midnight in Marrakech – Part 2: The Rooftop

The view from the rooftop was everything Sam had promised. The old city spread out below them in a sea of terracotta roofs, satellite dishes and palm fronds. Lanterns glowed in the courtyards. Far off, the Atlas Mountains were a dark line against the stars.

They sat side by side on the cushions, knees almost touching, and for a while neither of them spoke.

"Tell me why you're really here," Sam said at last.

Leila considered lying. Then she didn't.

"My sister died in March," she said. "We were supposed to come here together. She had the guidebook marked up in four colours. I bought the tickets and then I couldn't get on the plane until I was almost late." She laughed, unsteadily. "It sounds stupid."

"It doesn't."

"I keep waiting to feel brave. I'm not. I'm just here."

Sam was quiet. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

"I drew this on Tuesday," he said. "The minaret from the square. I couldn't get the lines right, so I kept going." He handed it to her. "It's a bit of a mess."

It was not a mess. It was a careful, loving sketch of the minaret, its tiles and arches and the pale light falling across its face, and in the bottom corner, very small, a line of handwriting: For someone who should see this at night.

Leila looked up at him. He had gone slightly pink under the sunburn.

"It was meant to be a postcard," he said. "I didn't know who to send it to."

She folded the sketch carefully and tucked it into her bag, next to her passport.

"Thank you," she said.

They talked until the lanterns in the courtyards began to go out one by one. About London, and how Sam had spent a decade building things he did not love. About Leila's job at a small publisher in Bristol, and the novel she had been planning for five years and never started. About the things they were afraid of, which turned out to be similar.

At half past one, a sudden gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters, and Leila shivered.

Sam was on his feet at once, pulling a blanket from the chair and wrapping it around her shoulders.

"You're cold," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Leila." He crouched in front of her, his face level with hers, and his voice dropped. "You can say no to anything I offer you tonight. The tea, the blanket, the roof. You don't have to be brave for me."

"I know," she said. "That's why I'm not afraid."

She reached up and touched his jaw, very lightly. He went still, the way a man does when he has been waiting for a sign and is afraid to trust it.

Then he leaned in, slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

The kiss was soft at first, a question, then warmer, unhurried. He tasted of mint tea and the cold night air. His hand came up to cradle her face, careful, as though she might break. She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, and for a moment the whole city below them seemed to fall silent.

When they parted, she was smiling.

"Your key," Sam murmured against her temple. "I think it's in your pocket."

She laughed, and reached in, and found it, cold and small, the one she had been looking for all evening. It had been there since the afternoon, tangled in the lining of her coat.

"So I don't need to go back to the riad," she said.

"Not tonight," Sam agreed, and kissed her again.

They spent the rest of the night on the roof, wrapped in the blanket, watching the dawn come up over the mountains. Sometime after the first call to prayer, Leila fell asleep against his shoulder, and when she woke, the sun was warm on her face and Sam was still there, sketching the sky.

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Next: Kayal Nights, a houseboat in Alappuzha and a man who came home from Dubai.