Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez Page B

the rest of the Afghans dining peacefully around her—knew they wouldn’t return. They had sent their message. Perhaps it was the ghosts from that day that were the causeof her unease, Zara thought, as she pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders.
    They remained on the terrace, warmed by the afternoon sun, as Mariam savored a bowl of sheer yakh , scraping gently at the mound of ice cream with her spoon as if she could make it last forever. Zara pushed the new pair of fake Ray-Bans up higher onto the bridge of her nose and allowed herself to relax, her focus switching to a pair of yellow paddle boats, shaped like swans, gliding toward the dam. The lake sparkled with a million tiny pinpoints of light, as if mocking the dull brown mountains around it.
    After Omar had paid the bill and they’d started across the patio for one last look at the shore before heading home, Zara was hit once again with a sense of apprehension. Her eyes darted from table to table with the fear that perhaps she and Omar had been spotted by someone who knew her family. But Zara saw no familiar faces. She turned to search the terrace of the hotel next door, and checked behind them, peering through the glass doors that led to the interior of the restaurant, but still no one seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to their little group of three. Even so, Zara just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that she was being watched.
    Now, by the light of the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window, Zara thought she understood. On that perfect day, a day where promise floated through the lakeside air like a kite on a string, a day when anything seemed possible, perhaps that sense of menace had instead been the arrival of a dark premonition, the foreshadowing of the unwelcome turn of events that was soon to come.
    â€œ Salaam ,” Zara greeted her mother good morning as the woman scooped a bowlful of chopped tomatoes into the panof eggs. Zara took out the plastic eating mat, carried it into the dining area, and unrolled it onto the floor. As she set out the plates and the thermoses of black and green tea, the rest of the household began to gather, her uncles and aunts lowering themselves to the floor to partake in their morning meal. Mariam was now awake and as chipper as a baby bird, chattering away as she fulfilled her job as the youngest in the household, pouring water over each pair of waiting hands and offering a towel to dry.
    As she scooped up her breakfast with the warm naan torn from the flat loaf passed from person to person, Zara once again felt there were eyes upon her. But this time she was definitely right, and the little smiles on her aunts’ faces and the looks shared among them turned the soft eggs in her mouth into a thick sludge that she could barely manage to swallow.
    Perhaps she’d gather the courage to speak with her father today, she thought as she watched his strong fingers grip the cup at his lips. He had not yet said a word to her about a proposal, so there was still a chance it was not too late. Maybe what Yazmina had first suggested at the coffeehouse had been correct. Maybe her father would understand, and the whole matter would soon be forgotten. But then the rest of Yazmina’s words echoed in her mind. It is the way things are done. It is tradition. And as the meal was finished, and the women stood to clear the dishes, and the call to prayer began to sound in the street outside, and the men hurried out the door to the mosque, Zara became leaden with the knowledge that her new friend had spoken the truth.

7
    â€œAnyone home?” The kitchen door flew open with a bang. Bear bounded in and skidded across the damp floor, leaving dark, muddy stripes in his wake.
    â€œDamn it, dog!” Sunny yelled, dropping her mop.
    â€œIt’s just me,” shouted Joe, scraping the bottoms of his moccasins against the wooden doorjamb. “But I come bearing gifts.” He placed