“Ya Allah,” Jameel says.

Muneer digs his hands into his pockets, as though searching them for cash. His Saudi government stipend won’t be enough once the baby comes, if he wants to keep sending money to his mother. But Jameel seems unworried. He’s happy, smiling his blizzard-bright smile. With time to kill, they drive the Beetle to the Jewish greasy spoon on Lee Road, where they don’t have to worry about whether or not they’re ordering pork.

Muneer gives the cashier girl fifteen cents for the Plain Dealer, and he and Jameel sit at a table in the corner and order beef sausages, sunny-side-up eggs, and rye toast. Muneer pokes a yellow half globe with the blunt corner of his toast and watches the bright liquid seep out. Maneuvering his thumb and two fingers, he tears off a bit of bread and twists it to grab some egg and sausage. He holds the newspaper in his other hand, eating and reading at the same time. Juggling the two activities calms him, keeps him from obsessing about the pizzeria and the money he’s losing.

“Get your nose out of the paper,” Jameel says. They speak English to avoid curious, sometimes mildly concerned looks. “No wonder your wife’s depressed.”

Muneer jabs his other egg with another bit of toast. Jameel always thinks he knows something other people don’t.

“She’s fine, thank God.”

Jameel folds his paper napkin into a small, fat square. “Ya shaykh.” He takes a breath, as though putting mental effort into returning to English. “She’s not fine. Something’s gone wrong with her. And with you. You jump when she’s near.”

Muneer wants to deny it. But arguing is tiresome. “I’ll stop reading if you stop talking about my wife like she’s a bad piece of fruit.”

“OK, habibi,” Jameel says. He pulls a small velvet box out of his pocket with a twist of the wrist that reminds Muneer of the magician they saw last summer at Cedar Point. With one thumb, Jameel pops the box open. A diamond ring.

The room is steamy and overheated, the smell of grease cloying. They’ve both removed their sweaters and draped them over their coats on the backs of their chairs. Muneer waves the newspaper like a fan.

Jameel sets the box on the table, in front of the salt and pepper.

“For Diane.”

“I know,” Muneer says, as though he anticipated this, which he did not. There are many things Muneer could ask: Has Jameel spoken to his father? Has Diane agreed to convert?

“What will you do with her dog?” he says.

“She’s giving the dog to her sister.” Jameel opens his palms as though he might slap Muneer on both sides of his face. Muneer flinches. Jameel brings one palm to his heart. “Come to the ceremony.”

“At the mosque?”

“City hall.”

“What if she doesn’t want to leave Cleveland?”