White Teeth

by Zadie Smith

“No one gasses himself on my property,” Mo snapped as he marched downstairs. “We are not licensed.”

“Do you hear that, mister? We’re not licensed for suicides around here. This place halal. Kosher, understand? If you’re going to die round here, my friend, I’m afraid you’ve got to be thoroughly bled first.”

That kind of inability to improve is really very rare. That kind of consistency is miraculous, in a way.

Long, comfortable silences passed between them like those between women who have known each other for years.

“Where you come from it is customary to boil vegetables until they fall apart. This does not mean,” said Samad tersely, “that it is a good idea.”