My heart is in my mouth and we drive in silence.

“I want to see where you live,” I say, though the minute the words are out of my mouth I am ashamed and I want to take them back.

Without hesitation, he turns the car around and goes back toward where we left Latifa.

The windows are down and dry wind whips my hair across my face and in my eyes, but I lean my head out farther. Stillness in the air, louder than the car engine.

My mouth is so dry I am almost gasping. We pull up in front of a store and Sharif buys two Pepsis and a cluster of small bananas. We drive, twisting and turning. He puts a whole banana in his mouth and throws the peel out the window.

Sweat is everywhere, on his forehead and dripping down by his ears. Wet marks form under his arms and I can feel the sweat under my jeans.

We turn down a narrow road lined with box houses. He stops in front of one of them. “Welcome,” he says.

Two rooms. In the corner of the living room hangs a punching bag, dark and green and somber and I imagine the corpses of poems scattered under it. Dotting the base of the walls are small coffee cups with thick grounds caked at the bottom. A radio stands sentry in the corner. Three small chairs cluster against the far wall, as though the last occupants were huddled together in conference.

Hot thick air, no breeze, no movement. I know I shouldn’t be here.

“Welcome,” he says again.

I feel shy, as though I have entered a house uninvited. I walk to the punching bag and hit it, just to see how hard it is.

“Here,” he says, taking my hand. “Fold your fist like this. Thumb down and under so it won’t get broken. Good. Punch comes from the side. Half twist around. Finger tips go from looking at the sky to looking at the floor.”

I watch his arms, thick like branches. I hear the thunk his fist makes when it meets the bag.

“Go ahead. You try.”

I do as he says. He guides my arm, my fist, and soon it is making the same thunks that his did.

“Clever girl.”

My arm aches. We stand and look at each other in silence for a minute.

“We must go,” he says, and I feel again as though I should not have come. We drive back to the hair salon and wait for Latifa outside.

That night I cannot sleep. Sharif is with me more and more. I feel a smothering feeling; I am losing control. Of what? I am not in love with him. I need to get away.

22 MAWAL The Beautiful Gift

22MAWALThe Beautiful Gift