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Some of them are whole-wheat hoagies—“healthy” policy on the outside, because it’s trendy right now, greasy politics on the inside.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen worse.” “It’s not like it doesn’t hurt anyway.”
There’s a sign above the door to the shack, the name of the place in a long, almost-unbroken line of squiggles, which the translator resolves for Roz as ZEINAB’S WORLD-FAMOUS COFFEE. An annotation informs her that there is no recorded evidence of Zeinab’s coffee being known anywhere farther away than Khartoum, and Roz smiles to herself: people here still aren’t used to Information debunking their every claim.
“No, but you know, I haven’t had a rough breakup like that in years”—because I haven’t had a long relationship in years—“and back then, AmourOff wasn’t around.”
Genius
green vegetable matter with her kisra. She grimaces at the sweet-sour taste: the vegetable is bourgette, a banana-zucchini cross that Roz still finds counterintuitive.
He takes a rough breath. “Every night,” he whispers, “I dream of nothing else.” He presses his lips to her palm, and then he is gone.
She has a thing for lovers who have to work through trust issues. I’m definitely warming to it myself.
