It was almost midnight when Huda gave up waiting for Abdul Amir to come home and crawled into bed. Above her head, the blades of the fan pushed warm air around the bedroom. She lay on her back and cataloged the noise of the night: the buzz of the fluorescent light in the foyer, the gritty wind scraping at the windows, the click-clack of nocturnal insects. She kept her breathing shallow, listening for the dull snap of a lock or the tread of heavy boots on her driveway.

In the distance, a car rumbled. Was Abdul Amir returning from the coffee shop at last? Huda sighed like the creaking fan. These days her husband’s black moods were worse than ever. Earlier that evening, when she arrived home from work, he’d been slumped in front of the television, still wearing his baggy pajama pants and singlet.

“I’m hungry,” he’d grunted, eyes trained on the TV screen. “What’s for dinner?”

Huda slipped out of her kitten-heeled pumps. “I picked up a roast chicken and rice on the way home.”

“You’re not going to cook lamb stew? You used to cook it every Thursday.”

Huda ignored the whine in his voice.

“There’s not enough time. Stew can’t be rushed or the meat will be tough.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Is Khalid home yet?”

“He’s eating dinner at Bakr’s house.” Abdul Amir stabbed at the buttons on the remote control. “At least my son will get a home-cooked meal.”

“Come now, be fair. I didn’t have time tonight.”

“Tonight. Yesterday. Last week. You are always busy with your work. What sort of wife puts her family second?”

And what sort of husband sits in his pajamas all day?

Abdul Amir kept his eyes on the television. Huda remembered when she would have happily drowned in his sea-green gaze. She remembered when a kind word was never far from his lips, when he whispered little jokes in her ear. Were those days gone forever? Was that memory, like so many, best forgotten? Huda tried once again to lure her husband from his sour mood.

“I chose a plump chicken. And I will fetch some cucumbers and tomatoes from the garden. You have a magic way with the plants, my dear.”

“You should not be working for foreigners.” Abdul Amir punched the remote again. “They don’t respect our culture. They don’t respect family. Otherwise they would realize a woman should be home in time to prepare a proper dinner.”

He turned his head and glared at her. She glared back.

“Without them we would have no chicken for dinner. No meat at all.”