Layla and Farha and Zaynab bustle about in the kitchen for most of the day, cooking and arguing; Zaynab’s coffee is the best, but Farha holds firm that it tastes awful. “’Ahweh!” she spits out, disdainful, stabbing at the cups with one manicured fingertip. “The coffee, it’s bitter.” “Ya Jamal,” Abdul calls, from the living room, where he and the other men are watching TV and grumbling about the dry weather, and I go, shading my eyes against the sudden burst of light from the television set that’s almost as ancient as the desert itself. Layla smiles at me as I pass by the kitchen, a sudden bright flash of teeth, and then turns back to the dinner she’s cooking.
Wild Heart
by kaitlyn g. young
46
47
