Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez

going?”
    â€œGotta run,” she answered, her words sliding down the scale in mock apology.
    â€œWell, think about my offer. Though I suppose we could sell the place. One of those dickhead developers who are ruining the island would snap it up in a nanosecond. But really? The way I feel about it? I honestly think we should remember how much the place meant to Jack.”
    She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits, as if squinting might actually help her see this man more clearly. “You know what?” she finally answered. “Why don’t we both just think about it for a day or two? I’m sure we can figure this out somehow.” And with that she flashed him her own wide smile, grabbed her jacket, and walked out the door.
    Â 
    Asshole , she thought to herself now, thinking back on the conversation as she took in the sight of the shabby kitchen around her. Now what was she supposed to do? Maybe he was right. Maybe she should honor Jack’s wishes. But then again, maybe it was just a tactic to get her to lower her asking price. Which, of course, she could do. But the thought of letting that creep manipulate her in such a way, when he was supposedly Jack’s friend, madeher sick to her stomach. Regardless, she supposed she should offer to meet with Rick again to discuss the possibilities in more detail. But the next time she’d make sure to allow enough time to get lost en route. No way was she going to let herself be stuck for one more night than necessary on this fucking island, with nothing better to do than scrub the damn floors.

6
    Zara woke to the smell of cooking eggs coming from the kitchen. How early her mother must have risen today. She stretched and stifled a yawn, careful not to rouse her little sister Mariam breathing softly and evenly on the toshak beside her. Still half-asleep herself, Zara’s foggy thoughts turned to the lazy Friday ahead, when she and her sister would first help their mother serve the morning meal, and later partake in their own midday prayers as the men went off to the mosque. And then she remembered, the dread filling her veins like a crippling poison. Any day, even this one, could bring a proposal, and along with it the end of her life as she knew it. There would be no more waking with her sweet sister by her side, no more of her mother’s warm breakfasts, or the touch of her hand as she smoothed Zara’s hair into a tidy braid. Gone would be the days of burying herself in her schoolbooks, the feeling of satisfaction from a difficult problem solved or a question soundly answered. There would be nomore giggling and gossiping with her girlfriends as they hurried between classes. And there would be no more Omar.
    Zara bolted upright, her bare feet landing on the rug beside her with a thud. If only her worries had all been a bad dream and things could still be just the way they were. But now she felt as though she were working against a giant ticking clock, trying to turn back its hands to a time before the specter of a proposal had reared its ugly head.
    As she readied herself to join her mother in the kitchen her thoughts went to a day not long ago, a day when her future seemed as bright as the golden sun above, a day made all the more so delicious by its secrecy. A Wednesday, it was. She and Omar had agreed to skip class, borrow a friend’s car, and escape for a picnic together at Qargha dam, about thirty minutes outside of the city. How badly they’d wanted to have some precious time together to talk, to sit and share their hopes and dreams for as long as they wanted, with nobody around to judge or tattle or condemn. Of course, even with no one who knew them anywhere in sight, the outing would have still aroused suspicions, would have caused heads to turn and questions to be asked about a young man and woman out alone, just the two of them, together. So rather than risk any complications that might come from that,