… It was with some shame
that he explained how, in the wood,
he lived on whatever prey he could
capture and kill. She digested this
and then inquired of him what his
costume was in these bizarre
forays. “Lady, werewolves are
completely naked,” was his reply.
She laughed at this (I can’t guess why)
and asked him where he hid his clothes—
to make conversation, I suppose.
“YALLAH," MY BOSS SHOUTS, swinging open the kitchen door and placing a few orders with the cooks. “You’re too slow, Amir. Faster. Wash those dishes faster. Yallah.” I plunge my hands deep into the hot water. I hate washing dishes. It makes me think of home. Not that I ever did this mundane task when I lived there. My mother took care of that. Took care of all those domesticated things. I guess you can say we weren’t a progressive Lebanese family, but is there such a thing? Maybe. But not my family. This foamy dishwater, for some strange reason, reminds me of the sea, and how I’d dive off a cliff and swim with all the strength my arms could muster, the white waves pushing against me.
