The night of the wedding I sang on stage. I chose a Frank Sinatra song, “Fly Me to the Moon,” which was exactly my range. I knew I had performed well, and I stepped off the stage to rounds of applause and a feeling of empowerment. Eman immediately ran to hug me, kissing both my cheeks. Emboldened by her kisses and tipsy, I sauntered over to the bridesmaid and said that I had something to tell her. I felt giddy at the prospect of my confession as I stepped toward her, only to then trip on my dress and fall to the floor. She helped me up, but I ran back to my table feeling mortified.

I sat there for a while sipping a glass of wine before noticing that the best man was staring at me. He was cute, m’rateb, and single—the married people had already notified all the single girls of his relationship status. When we caught eyes he waved, then came over and asked if I wanted to dance. He seemed like someone my mother and the community would be impressed by, a good candidate for marriage. As we danced he draped his tie around my neck, and tugged the end to pull me in closer. After a few songs he asked if I wanted to go smoke a cigarette. We took the elevator to the rooftop terrace, where we made out haphazardly, the wind blowing my hair into our faces. “Shall we go down to my room?” he suggested.

Back in the elevator, he pressed the button for his floor and continued to kiss me. When the doors opened, I spotted the bridesmaid down the hallway, typing into her BlackBerry. My stomach flipped. I watched her put her phone in her pocket and walk into her room. The tie guy put his arm around my shoulder, and I walked with him down the opposite side of the corridor. We stopped in front of a door and he fumbled for his room key.

He slid the key into the reader above the knob. A green light blinked. “Actually,” I said, “maybe it’s better if we don’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“You know how quickly gossip spreads here.” I kissed him and tried to give back his tie.

“Keep it,” he said. “It looks better on you.”

We said good night. I walked toward the elevators and then continued past them. Nervous, I summoned the requisite apocalyptic imagery: Scrap metal. Barren tree branches. Tumbleweed. I knocked gently on her door.

“Hey there,” she said when she opened it. “Nice cravat.”

I looked down at the tie, its knot wide and loose, then looked back up at her. “Can I come in?”