Another Gulf War breaks out but—oh! To have a body like Sharmili’s! We twins try and we try but of course there’s something special about the high priestess of the Dubai barre studio scene. Sharmili’s the last one left in the city. All the other supergirls have fled! And goodness knows she’s the best! Her Urdu name means demure, modest, shy but she’s barely that. Online Sharmili goes by the @PeachofDubai and for the thigh routine at Physique 57 this morning she has us doing squat pulses to Childish Gambino’s This is America, what our goddess calls a juicy track. We are front row, sweating in matching Sporty and Rich, feeling that fire we dread yet crave in our quads as Sharmili asks the class to lean into the burn, to stick to the rhythm, to keep going and going and we smile, pull our shoulders back to let her know that there’s no other place we would rather be, that this is easy, even pleasurable, that she’s trained us so well our bodies could go on like this forever. Sharmili’s fast with the demos, flitting, posing, voguing, blowing kisses to us and the other girls who catch them and tuck them into their Lucas Hugh bras and Ultracor crop tops. Her breath easy, she sings along with Gambino, telling us in between the lyrics that this routine is an American gift, that the Americans bring war but also great workouts, that did we know the Thighmaster launched the same day as Operation Desert Storm! She is always telling facts like that these days—about War and Workouts!—says even we girls too are at war. Against the softening of our bodies. She never uses the word fat. The black hair she usually has coiled into a bun is in a braid today, coming down to her hips and shimmying behind her like a serpent and we think of the nasha’at Khaleeji dance pictures Sharmili posted on Union Day to celebrate the founding of the country. It was peace time, just four months ago and long-haired local girls in multicolored jalabiyas stood in a line with Sharmili in the center cloaked in palest gold, swaying with abandon, her sheet of black hair looking not like hair at all but a pirate’s flag, ominous, a sign for some kind of risk. She was invited to do the national dance at the Heritage Village near the creek on account of having an Emirati grandmother but we can never see Sharmili as a pure citizen. Inside our heads Sharmili’s one of our own, a Lahore girl, an outsider to the city, a foreigner, an ajnabi. On the fringes! From here but not here! Just like us! She calls this place home like we do. She won’t flee! Neither will we. Even today Dubai is Glorious! We showed the nasha’at dance shot to Romeo, purveyor of the protein shakes at The Box Gym and he said that even to a gay man Sharmili was a 10. We told him we’d never been crushed like this before. It happens, he said. In this city it happens all the time. 
 

When Paula Abdul’s Cold Hearted Snake comes up for abs Sharmili asks the class to raise their hands, if we’ve ever been the victim of a cold hearted snake. We twins have never been double crossed in love that way, hell we’ve never even been in love, Sharmili is our first love, our only love, yet we raise our hands. Anything for her to find in us two compatriots! She looks over and smiles. You two as well? We nod to let her know, yes, us too. Us two! Broken girls! 

In the changing rooms Sharmili catches our eye and says, I’m taking the rest of the day off so 
I can drown my sorrows. I feel blue.  

Because of the boy? we ask, trembling because this sense of familiarity is something entirely new. She took note of our feigned heartache! She has plucked us out! Put us on the windowsill of her esteem.  

Because of the boy. 

Want a partner? Or two! 

Sure. 

And you can tell us all about your cold hearted snake, we say, putting our hands on the girl’s 
wrist.  
 

There are no missile alerts for the afternoon so we aim for somewhere near the Ritz. Sharmili drives and we find the songs on her Spotify. Nineties R&B is what she likes so we hum along to Brandy and watch Sharmili from the corners of our eyes, taking in the diamonds in her ears, the color of her nails–neon peach, her thighs in those Versace tights. At Financial Center, she picks the terrace at BB Social and by the end of our first glass of the Bouquet Spritz we’re already peaking with a buzz that runs deep in our bones. Here we are with her. Sharmili of the fifty thousand followers, Sharmili of the box splits, of the Nike night running club, pacer for the sprinters, of the perfect backflip, of the Bali yoga retreat, of the Spiritual Gangster photoshoot at the Grand Canyon, of the 11:11 angel pendant in white gold, of the tattoo free body because she likes virgin skin. We lean back, let ourselves fall deep into Sharmili’s witchy eyes the color of honey. Tell us your story, we say to her, ordering a second glass for all three. 

Sharmili’s nose turns pink and we watch a blush settle on the girl’s neck and chest. We don't know what to expect but we sit up straight, place our hands on Sharmili’s and take a picture in our minds’ eye of our three hands together. We give her a little squeeze. Tell us about him, we say. What’s his name? 

Ahmad, says Sharmili, taking her phone out to show us a picture. Local. He drives a red Aventador and a big GMC on the weekends when we go to the beach. He won’t let me post about him of course.  

She hesitates, takes a sip of spritz then lights a slim. She shudders as she exhales and we watch her right hand twist the napkin around her fingers before we look at the picture and move our eyes slowly over the boy. Ahmad has a neat beard, biceps and what look like manicured fingernails. He leans against his glossy red car as the sun dips into the water behind him. 

I only give him access to the back door, says Sharmili, tapping the side of her ass.  

The vision of our goddess naked bent over with her long hair like reins in Ahmad’s polished hands flashes in front of our eyes but we blink it away.  

You’re saving your virginity— 

—For my future husband, says Sharmili, filling in our blanks. Anyways Ahmad was always happy with the arrangement—  

—But now?— 

—He started asking for more and when I said no, he just got another girl. Threw me out. Just like that. Like I’m nothing.  

You’re not nothing.  

I feel like nothing. 

Trust us. You’re something. You’re a 10. You’re the Peach of Dubai! The only Peach! 

Sharmili laughs.  

We give the girl’s hand another squeeze and order a bottle of Perrier to share.

* 

Sharmili doesn’t come in for our Amped Up! class the next morning and we only find out after we enter the studio and see trainee Jalila hanging her towel on the bar for the instructor. Is she sick? we ask Jalila. Is it the drone alert? Jalila shrugs and hands us the resistance bands we’ll be training with today. After class we drive not back home ignoring the Seek Shelter Warning but to the vegan coffee place in Jumeirah where we know Sharmili goes every day to wait in between her morning sessions at Physique and afternoon classes at The Box. We have seen her stories, we know Sharmili likes the Bullet coffee with coconut milk, the gluten free blueberry scones with cashew cream, the cozy spot with crochet cushions next to the banana palm near the window. She isn’t here so we order Bullet coffee with coconut milk, gluten free blueberry scones with cashew cream and take the spot next to the banana palm near the window. We scroll to see if there are any updates from Sharmili and for the first time in a year there are no stories of Sharmili’s Super Sunrise Yoga sessions on the beach, no snaps of her oatmeal flour pancakes, no bed selfies with her seal point Siamese Poogie. Even these days Sharmili posts a five minute morning stretch routine or eight minute core burn in her Oysho pajamas, pale pink silk eye mask shifted up to her forehead but not today. Today there is no word from her. No word at all. Heart sinking, we sip our coffee and look up only when we get a faint whiff of tuberose and musk, 
Frederic Malle’s Carnal Flower, Sharmili’s scent. She’s at the counter with her long black hair in French braids, big Gucci sunglasses and the linen faded rose co-ord set and copper Birkenstocks she posted about buying a week ago. As she turns to head out, we wave at her but Sharmili ignores us and pushes the glass door. 

Hey! we yell out. Are you okay? 

I’ve never seen you two here before, she says. 

You weren’t at class today. 

Sharmili doesn’t answer but sips from her cup and we realize it’s not the Bullet coffee with coconut milk but an iced matcha latte instead and we make a mental note to try it next time. Sharmili turns a corner and we follow her till we are in a quiet side street in between two bungalows with salt on the breeze coming in from the Arabian Gulf and a shade of palms. Sharmili takes out the keys to her Honda Taurus and we place hands on her arm. Are you okay? we ask again.  

Sharmili slips back the sunglasses and we see the bruised eye, timid, cast down.  

I saw Ahmad last night. He took what he wanted, says Sharmili. Said it was war and time was running out! He forced himself into me and said goodbye for good. She hurls her matcha latte across the street, then her keys, then her Longchamps bag. Her body begins to shake and we can feel the quake through the invisible waves that move between us. Our goddess, our 10, our Peach of Dubai, Sharmili of the perfect peacock pose is breaking now, coming apart into a million pieces and we step up to hold her in place, to gather her and Sharmili gives into the embrace, puts her head on our shoulders where we feel warm tears soak through our thin cotton tees, wetting our skin. We hold the girl like we’ve never held anything before, like a pair of supplicants receiving holy light in our outstretched arms. We run our hands down Sharmili’s back, stroke the French braids from the head down to their thick silky ropes, feeling the tight curves and twists in each plait. The girl’s face feels hot though the day is cool and we hold it up in our hands, run a thumb on Sharmili’s perfect thick eyebrows and slide the back of our palms on the cheeks to smudge away the tears streaking clear because for once Sharmili skipped her Fenty mascara. She also skipped lipstick and we see two faint dots on the girl’s lips and the other beauty spots, on the side of her neck and in the hollow of her collarbone. We tuck our fingers under her chin and lift her face, looking into the purple around the eye which is like a cosmos now full of its own story, immodest in its impact.  

He didn’t take anything from you, we tell her. You’re still a whole person. A 10. And we’re here if you need us.  

Our faces are close. Sharmili’s lips quiver and the words of thanks that come out of her are small and wet. We feel the girl’s matcha breath land on our own faces, sweet, thick, steamy so we part our lips, inhale the air between us and the girl and it tastes to us like the finest dessert, like something we have waited for pretty much all of our lives. We know this is it. This is the closest we’re ever going to get. She is our Peach of Dubai! A drone flies overhead. This is our only moment in the sun!

Raja’a Khalid was born in Saudi Arabia to Pakistani parents and grew up in Dubai where she still lives. She has an MFA in Art from Cornell University and is an alum of the McCormack Writing Center (formerly Tin House). Her stories appear or are forthcoming in publications such as The Rumpus, Strange Horizons, Lakeer, River Styx and elsewhere.