Later that morning, when Reema stepped off the subway at 15th and Market, George was already waiting for her underneath the Clothespin. The statue, made of stainless steel, loomed forty-five feet over the major intersection, with majestic City Hall in the background.

George waved awkwardly as she approached. “Get some coffee?” he asked in Arabic.

“I’d rather just talk if you don’t mind,” she said, also in Arabic, “because I’m not even sure I should have called you.”

He didn’t reply, just sat down on a nearby bench.

She sat beside him. “I should say thanks for coming in the first place. I know it was short notice.”

“No problem,” he replied anxiously. “I have only a short break at work—I have surgery this afternoon—so I hope I didn’t bring you out too far.” He gestured toward the statue. “Nobody can miss this thing, so I thought it was the easiest place.”

“Oh, of course,” she replied awkwardly. “I love this statue anyway. I knew exactly what you were referring to.”

“You love this thing?” He turned and looked at it again, studied it for a few seconds, then faced her. “I don’t get it, I guess. Abstract art was never my favorite.”

“It’s brilliant.”

“It’s a clothespin.”

“No, it’s not.”

He waited expectantly.

“It’s two people embracing.”

“What!” He turned again.

“You can’t see it from this angle,” she interjected quickly. “You’ll have to wait until we’re in front of it.” Then she asked bluntly, “Are you getting married?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I mean no, not really.” He cleared his throat. “What I should say is that my parents have asked me to consider marrying a young woman, the daughter of a friend of my father’s. They think her family would be agreeable to an arrangement.”

She apologized. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but you need to know something about Nadia before you make that decision.”

“Nadia? I haven’t spoken to her in over a year. Since the accident.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How is she?” he asked eagerly, leaning forward.

“She’s gotten so thin—you haven’t seen her—and all she does is go to work, come home, sleep, and repeat it all the next day. I don’t remember the last time she went out with us, laughed, had a good time.”

George frowned. “That hurts me. But what can I do?”

“What would you say,” Reema said, choosing her words carefully, “if you knew Nadia still loved you?”

“Still loves me?”

“Do you still love her?”

“I do,” he replied simply.

“Do you want to be a father one day?” Reema asked him.

“Of course.”