It was a pretty night in New York City, but chilling. Alexandria was freezing at night; she remembers the fires in the small hearths around the neighborhoods in the Egyptian city. America was completely diverse when presented in comparison against her homeland. She could talk to a man she'd never known, she could wear a swimsuit it she desired so, and she could walk alone!
She gazed into her heavy handbag. She found the money she had. Counting, she concluded she had $700 USD left. She had *barrowed* her father's and what she could of her former husband's bank, and exchanged them upon arrival. She was surprised to see how many people looked at her as if she were normal. They way they all smelled, she knew they were humans. And she was an elemental;; she was water.
She trudged along the street in her black burka, wanting to strip it off, and to find comfort in her bare body;; looking around, she searched for clothing retail stores. She wanted to dress like the beautiful American women: earrings and necklaces, dresses and tight jeans...perhaps she was lusting for too much already.
She came upon a soda vending machine. A dollar, she thought to herself. She fancied Diet Pepsi. The soda rumbled down the throat of the machine, and found it fizzing. She opened it, and the pressure sprayed drops in her eyes. She smiled, for a minute.
Namet took a large gulp of the pop, and found her throat yelling for more. She was absolutely thirsty;; she required more hydration than she can remember, in comparison to her friends she left behind in Alexandria.
Post by Alysia Weaver on Oct 31, 2015 14:41:53 GMT -5
Alysia was wandering down the street, humming softly to herself as she went. She was wearing simple cloths really, a long skirt that fell all the way to her ankles and a loose blouse upon her torso. She wore simple high heels, that made only the slightest sound upon the sidewalk as she walked. She had been trying to expand her business, trying to find places to open up a shop somewhere she liked in order to sell her clothes. She had come to New York City, hoping this might be the place she would open up her shop. However, she had spent only a little bit of time here and was already ready to leave. They had wanted to charge an outrageous amount of money for her to simply buy the store itself, then there was all the bills and the fee for getting everything she needed. It was just to much to do it here in this city.
However just because the fee was enormous, and she no longer wished to open a store in this city did not mean she wanted to leave New York City with out experiencing some of the things it had to offer. So she had been walk all day, traveling from place to place on foot or using the buses around the town and a few times the subway. Oh she had loved the subway except for the suffocating amount of people that had been in there. Now she was simply moving idly, wondering what she should see next. She had just left that one place that people got so excited about over sports, though she had been confused and though it was what the name had originally implied. She though the Garden would be a garden like her dearest sister would cultivate and care for. Instead it had been a large building, with tons of human stuff inside it for things like sports and gatherings of music and things like that. She had found it very interesting, just not what she had been expecting.
Walking along, she suddenly bumped in to somebody standing near a vending machine. She gasped, stepping backwards but other woman's black burka had caught on one of Alysia's buttons and pulled it off her head. Alysia squeak, trying to gather the black dyed fabric up and hand it back to the other woman, apologizing profusely. "Oh my gosh! I am so sorry ma'am! Here, oh wow I am so embarrassed, I did not mean to do that. Please, can I help you with anything? Are you alright?"
Drinking the fizz, she slurped in the taste. But midway through her drink, a force shoved her aside and she felt threads and material peel away from her.
"Eek!" Namet yelped. She was afraid of 'revealing herself' in front of others. But she couldn't help but notice how attractive she was;; the woman who tore her burka.
The pop spilled on what left of the fabric she had, her hair exposed and a gap between her shoulder and breast, and she heaved as she felt the cold seep into her skin.
"No, I'm so sorry! It was my fault!" she apologized quickly, and held her arms in an array as a shield, as if it were her husband scolding her and ready to hit her. But she apologized. And first.
My clothing! she thought helplessly as she looked at her shredded 'dress'.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she blushed as she knotted a blue hijab over her hair that she stored in her handbag.
Post by Alysia Weaver on Nov 1, 2015 15:14:09 GMT -5
Alysia shook her head, trying to apologize profusely. She wrung her hands, looking frightfully upset at having ran in to this other female and doing this, and she really and truly was upset. Alysia was just like that, never one to let others take the blame and always trying to make things better and such.
"No, ma'am, it is all my fault. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. Please, can I make it up to you? I am a seamstress after all, I could fix it for your or make you another."
She looked at the other female, her eyes wide and full of sorrow for almost running her down and stripping her of her garment. Alysia was not sure why the female was so intent upon covering her head, however she was not going to argue the point. She knew, now, that women from many different cultures dressed differently and acted differently then American women. Maybe that was where she should try to build her shop instead, in the Middle East or India somewhere. They seemed to value the quality of their clothing a little more then the Americans did.
The woman in front of her made the point clear;; she was sorry. And she made it feel as if Namet was a victim, not the one who done it. And she was...This place is different, more so than I could've expected! she thought proudly and high-heartedly.
Namet blushed at her. Clearly attractive, to her anyway, and couldn't keep it down. This is exactly what the men would hit her for in her homeland. But somehow, she had a modest appreciation for the rules that kept her taught. No you don't! That's weakness! You're untrue to yourself and women suffering everywhere! she fought inside of herself.
Namet Al-Tabad gathered the threads and gripped them tightly as a mother would to a newborn child. "You could? I...I would be grateful!" she smiled carefully. She was tired of the burkas~ one piece, black and hot, suffocating and restricting dresses, that must cover her ankles. Women wear Hijabs (single headpieces around the head) in Arabia, Egypt's close and blood-bound neighbor;; why couldn't she do that? It will be like keeping a part of myself true, but the other half still exploring, she reflected.
"I would love a new one, more so than this..." she whispered shyly, loud enough for the lady to hear. "I can't stand to wear this...coffin."
She said that aloud. She admitted what she'd always thought. Aloud! A painful death for that could be expected, anywhere in the deserts of the Middle East. But she wasn't in the East at all. And she would likely never return.
Post by Alysia Weaver on Nov 2, 2015 23:07:53 GMT -5
Alysia thought for a moment, lifting her left arm up and placing her thumb upon the bottom of her chin while her forefinger curved around it. Her right arm curved around her from, allowing her left arm's elbow to rest upon it and prop up the other arm as she gazed at the female across from her. What the female had said was true, her cloths where a little boring and over much. Especially for New York, but then Alysia did not know an exceptional amount of tradition of different cultures. She was still studying and all, and gathering information. Maybe she would concentrate upon that in her future studies.
"You are right dear, those cloths are a little dull and dreary. I could easily make you something that is at once modestly concealing and extremely gorgeous. Something to bring out the natural beauty of your body and your face. I do not believe in all this new age fashion, with cloths that cover almost nothing and are designed to simply excite guys and make the girls feel 'sexy' when they already are and just need to be shown how sexy they are in the right cloths. I do believe there is a balance between beauty, usefulness, and modesty. If you want, my hotel is not to far from here and I can show you several things. You could also tell me a little about yourself like your sizes, what you do, and your favorite colors. Then I could think of the best thing to make for you."
She smiled, when a sudden though hit her head. She had nothing to dye the clothing with. She had not been intending to sew anything up here, but simply show off her wares she already have. Alas, the city was a poor place to gather fabric dyes and poor Alysia did not have her sister (that wonderful doll and brilliant girl) to grow her anything to derive such coloration from. However she did not let her smile falter, refusing to show any of these thoughts as she knew she could come up with something to still accomplish making this female a dress she would love and feel comfortable in.
"I would be grateful," she smiled. This one, in front of her, had a certain energy to her. Fresh, exciting...certainly enthusiastic. She wondered how many customers she receives.
Namet did not know an appropriate way to thank this woman. But she had almost forgotten: "My name is Namet Al-Tabad. If you want to be traditional, it's Namet bint Mamoud," she blushed once again. What could she be thinking?
"What is your name?" she gulped down her natural shyness.
She adjusted her curly locks to fall behind her and leave her shoulders alone, and held her hands together at the wrist, because she didn't exactly know a comfortable stance. She was better at eating than talking.
She he cleared her throat and breathed down another large drink of her soda;; was it the woman making her uncomfortable or nervous, and her beauty? Or was it the simple fact of carrying a conversation that irked her?
