Since Harun died–
was killed, that is–
Warda hadn’t had many visitors.
There was Khadduja,
who lived with her blind mother three houses down–
she sometimes came in for a cup of coffee in the evening
when Warda was getting ready to be on the night shift.
Nightmare Man buy Warda was only twenty-eight and a quarter,
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widowed less than a year.
The blood still run in her veins and she liked to have a good time
as much as anybody else.
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Still, it was hard to meet people
who wanted to make the rounds at 8:00 a.m.,
other than congenial losers and pinch-faced retirees
hunched over a double Vodka,
as if it were going to give them back
the key to their future.
And the times
Warda tried to go out at night on her days off,
she’d find herself drifting over her first Gin
while everyone else got up
and danced.
And so she invited him in,
this man: Aly.
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And here he was sprawled on the couch in his Seroual
with his legs that run on forever.
Warda offered him some stale biscottes
and a bright orange block of Mimolette
she’d surreptitiously shaved the mold off of,
and was just wondering
if he might like a glass of Pinot Noir
she’d brought all the way from Oregon on her last trip to America.
“Un petit canon!”
He let his grin flag,
a boy’s grin;
the grin that no doubt got him
whatever he wanted wherever he went.
He pushed the turban back
till the roots of his hair showed the front,
squared his shoulders, and gathered in his legs.
She saw that he was her age, or close enough,
and she saw too that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“A early late for me,” he said smilingly
and his smile was genuine.
“But if you’re going to have one . . . “
She was already pouring.
“I told you,” she said, “I work night shifts.”
Seroual: Baggy pants found mostly in the Arab world.
Mimolette: An expensive French cheese. Apparently a favorite of Charles de Gaulle.
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