“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.