Member-only story
Falling For a Moroccan Man in Marrakech
He’s not what you might be picturing right now. He doesn’t wear a turban or a kaftan that goes down to his ankles — at least not on a typical day. No, in fact he prefers floral, short sleeve button-downs, black jeans, and leather loafers — all which hug his body perfectly. He’s got soft skin, a warm heart, and a wise mind.
The day we met
I came to Morocco with every intention of connecting with the locals, but I had never expected to meet a man romantically; it never even crossed my mind. But life can be funny like that.
I was immersed in a sea of copper lanterns, flowing carpets, and bustling streets— the very heart of Marrakech. It was loud, energetic, not for the faint of heart. I was holding a steady, focused pace, my attempt to avoid the inevitable hassling. Henna ladies, older Moroccans selling carpets, and young flirtacious men were all waving their hands and calling out to me. I had walked through these lively markets a number of times by then, but on this day I passed him.
“Do you know what this is?” he said as I continued walking.
I looked back. “Yep, it’s lipstick.”
“Ah, you’re wearing it,” he said as he pointed at my lips. I turned to move toward him.
