Often, and without abandon.
I used to think of them in the abstract, a mysterious,
forbidden, segment of the population.
Now, I think about her.
Her fingers,
wandering the length of my spine.
Her ribs,
rising and falling with breath, as they press against my chest.
Her hair,
silky and fine,
vanilla-infused,
tickling my throat.
I think about intimacy— and not as the necessary exploit of an arranged union.
I think about intimacy with her.
I will endure her mother’s wrath a thousand times
for the chance to touch her again.
Later, she calls to tell me that she will come to our cottage for lunch.
My veins flood with
relief,
excitement,
anxiety …
Friendships between girls and boys defy Islamic ideals,
but Baba is sympathetic; he understands the Western way, and my need to spread my wings.
More than that, though, he recognizes that our time in America is brief, temporary, transitory.
Being with her may be a sin, but our expiration date is fixed.
Therefore, a shared lunch gives him little reason for concern.
Mama, however, is contrary.
“Girls are temptation, Matihullah.
She will lead you to wrongdoing.
She will bring you shame.”
No. Secrets bring me shame.
“Let the boy have fun while he can,” Baba says.
And then he coughs,
a ferocious fit that shakes our cottage.
Mama brings water.
After he drinks, he says, “When summer is over,
there will be no time for fun.”
When summer is over, we will know whether he will live or die.
When summer is over,
we will make the long journey back to Afghanistan.
When summer is over …
I will say goodbye to her.
elise
This morning I met Mati at the beach in yoga pants and a tattered sweatshirt because whatever, but choosing an outfit for lunch is no joke. Shorts won’t do, and most of my dresses are scant in the fabric department. Jeans seem like a safe enough option, but finding a pair that doesn’t fit super-skinny or have intentionally shredded holes is a challenge.
I finally manage to dig a dark-rinsed pair from the depths of my closet, which I top with a pale pink cardigan. I weave my hair into a French braid, then pack lip gloss, my wallet, and my Canon pocket camera (just in case) into a shoulder bag.
Good enough, I hope.
I cut through town and stop by the florist, then walk on, checking my appearance in every shop window I pass. Now that I’m nearing Mati’s cottage, I worry that I look all wrong. Maybe it’s my reflection, warped in the windowpanes, but my jeans stretch too tight across my butt, the heels of my ankle boots appear a smidge too high, and my hair … Maybe I should’ve left it down?
I grip my just-purchased bouquet a little tighter and pick up my pace.
I knock on the door at noon—right on time. I mentally review Ryan’s notes: compliments good, cursing bad; gracious good, timid bad; drinking tea good, talk of religion bad. I’m so nervous, so on-edge, I’m dizzy.
Mati swings the door open. He’s wearing jeans, too, and a hoodie, dark green, zipped all the way up. He looks handsome—he looks hot. Of course he does. Because if I’m not thinking naughty things about him while his parents serve me rice, cooked with meat and vegetables, lunch just won’t be any fun.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, moving aside so I can step into the foyer, where the scents of grilled meat and earthy spices—saffron, turmeric, paprika—waft through the air.
I indicate my appearance and, with a perfunctory cringe, whisper, “Do I look okay?”
He leans in, just a little, and whispers, “Kaishta.”
And now I’m blushing. Perfect.
I hold up the bunch of gerber daisies I bought in town. They’re vivid pink and sunny yellow, and their stems are tied with a burlap ribbon. “I brought these for your mother. Do you think they’re okay?”
He nods, smiling. Cue sigh of relief.
He steps out of the foyer, toward what I assume is the living room, and I’m a half second from following when I notice his sock-clad feet and remember what Ryan said about removing my shoes. I slip off my boots, relieved to find my socks presentable. God—what if I hadn’t worn socks? I’d be traipsing around in my bare feet with my Very Cherry pedicure calling attention to my toes. I glance up to see Mati watching as I line my boots neatly by the door. “Is this okay?”
He laughs. Gently. Sweetly. “Everything is okay.” He grasps my hand and gives it the briefest squeeze. “Please, stop worrying.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right—I’m freaking out. Be gracious, but not timid. I repeat Ryan’s words like a mantra as I follow Mati into the living room.
The cottage is very tidy and sparsely decorated, though there are beautiful rugs thrown randomly across the floor. Mati’s parents sit on a sofa not unlike ours, overstuffed and comfortable-looking, across the room from a dark television. His mother, who I remember seeing in town weeks ago, the day Mati and I met, holds a jacketless book. His father—and I’m despicable for even thinking this phrase—looks like death warmed over. He’s thin and pale, and a cream-colored cap covers what I suspect is a bald scalp. He’s got his head tipped to rest on the back of the sofa, and his eyes are closed. I’m pretty sure he’s dozing.
“Mama, Baba,” Mati says with enough volume to coax his father awake. “This is Elise. Elise, my parents, Hala and Rasoul.”
Hala helps her husband stand, gripping his elbow, and I smile as Rasoul welcomes me. His English is as good as his son’s, though his voice is raspier, and his accent is thicker. Hala, while cool and quiet, seems satisfied enough by the bouquet I offer. She leaves the room while Mati and I make small talk with his father, then returns a few minutes later carrying the flowers in a vase filled with water.
She waves us into the dining room, and we sit down to lunch, cross-legged on cushions placed in a circle on the dining room floor. Mati’s across from me, next to his father. His mother takes the spot beside me after bringing an enormous platter from the kitchen. It’s overflowing with golden rice, bits of brightly colored vegetables, and hunks of unidentifiable meat—though, I guess it’s safe to assume it’s not pork.
This must be pilau.
There are skewers of grilled chicken, too, plus flattened bread that reminds me of pita, and a bowl of what looks like diluted milk. There are flecks of green floating in it.
We sit, staring at the bounty of food, until Mati gives me a nod. “Go ahead, Elise.”
Confession … Last night I watched videos online about Afghan dining customs. It was all very communal, the way they served and shared and consumed. In most of the clips, men ate separately from women, and utensils appeared to be optional. So now I’m thrown. Here we are, a mix of genders sitting together, and there’s definitely silverware beside my plate. There’s a large spoon beside the platter of pilau, too, which is a relief. I cannot even fathom digging in with my hand.
I take a kebab and some of the flat bread. Using the spoon, I scoop rice from the platter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hala watching me, hawklike. I strong-arm a rush of worry.
Mati’s not shy about loading his plate. He serves his parents, too, a surprising gesture that invokes a fluttering in my chest, like the delicate beat of hummingbirds’ wings.