I wiggled my toes inside my high heels, still mustering the will to get up. I tried not to glance at the paper with the attached bank card. When banks sent new account cards, they came with preset PIN codes, which could be reset at any ATM. It was probably his bank card with the code. The glass cube paperweight was next to it.

“You got a nice amount of savings from this country, didn’t you?” he said, sipping from the glass of tea in his hand. He set it down, then stood and walked around the desk toward me.

“Please, Abu Moathe …”

“I’ll give you the money from your account. But what’s in it for me? Or do you just want to take and take and give nothing? That’s what Palestinians do. You eat, then bite the hand that fed you.” I thought better of reminding him of his Palestinian origins.

I got up to leave, but he pulled me back by my hair. I remembered how much it used to give him pleasure to yank my hair. “Bend over and pull up your dress, whore.” He pushed me, warning me what would happen if I didn’t keep quiet.

“I will toss you out of this door and yell for everyone to hear that you came in offering to suck my dick for money. And you’ll be in jail right next to your brother, the filthy dog son of a whore.”

I steadied myself, lifted my dress, and lowered my panties. They were white with blue lace trim. I bent over the desk slowly, over the glass cube paperweight and bank card, which I could see now had his name. He pushed my legs apart. I curled my toes inside my shoes, my fingers around the paperweight in one palm, and my nails into the flesh of the other. He pushed himself inside me. I clenched my teeth, dug my nails deeper into my skin, and watched the ripples in the glass of tea as he panted behind me. “You fucking ungrateful Palestinians. Did you think that was it? That Saddam was going to rule Kuwait? You thought you could betray us like that? Here’s your reminder, bitch. This is what Palestinians are good for. Cheap labor and cheap whores. We buy and sell people like you here.”

I loosened my fists, left one palm on the paperweight and grabbed the bank card with the other, memorized the PIN code printed in small numerals, and stuffed the card into my brassiere.

“This is what you get now, whore.”

I repeated the number in my head over and over, until he discharged himself inside me. I pulled up my white underpants with the blue lace trim. Pulled down my dress. Straightened myself and waited, plotting my revenge.

He buzzed his assistant. “Bring Madam Yaqoot’s file.

“Sit,” he told me. I sat, feeling his semen slip out of me. “And drink some of that tea,” he added. I picked up the glass, sipped the tea, repeating the PIN code to myself: 3254, 3254, 3254.