Just like every other night, you prepare yourself for the performance in this deserted oasis where men come and go, drunken or pleasured.

With the cue, you sway, pulsating with the song.

You gasp when a firm hand encircle your waist, pulling you tenderly against his front.

You look up, meeting pair of hazel eyes staring down at yours.

“Bishataq lak, zahrati.” A voice whispers who you longed to meet again. He swings you, not disrupting your performance, continuing with intimate moves.