Three months before Italy, I was living at my mother’s apartment in Washington and learning how to call a coffee order. The various properties of a signature beverage—tall, grande, venti, skim, two percent, whole, extra shot, added flavor—had to be called to my “partner” at the espresso machine in the order that they were listed on the cup. After work I would return to the apartment, take off my apron, eat the free sandwich I’d received for working back-to-back shifts, and watch television.

I’d finally graduated, but had no idea what I wanted to do. So I accompanied my mother on her social outings. I would sit there smiling silently, my presence politely tolerated and largely ignored by my mother’s friends. They all treated me like I was ten—“where’s mama?” they’d ask if she left the table for a minute. But one friend of my mother’s, a new friend who began coming to these outings more and more often, spoke to me like I was at least out of kindergarten. Each time I saw her she’d make a point to talk to me, a rarity among the others. I began to expect and look forward to it each time we went out. She’d asked what my plans were, did I want to stay in D.C., would I apply to grad school. She was attractive if not beautiful, her features dark and severe, except for her eyes, which were blue. It’s rare for an Arab. She was Palestinian too, married to an ambassador, and from what I knew she played her role well.

One night I drove to a Persian restaurant in a rich D.C. suburb to pick up dinner. I walked in and spotted her at the counter. “I asked for three chicken-and-beef combos,” she said to the man behind the register, raising her voice, “and one lamb. Very simple, I’m not sure how you managed to screw it up.”

I started inching toward the door but she turned around before I could leave. “Oh, hello!” she said.

I waved awkwardly.

“It’s just that,” she fumbled for her wallet, “I have guests staying over.” I nodded, unsure of what I was supposed to say. “Usually it’s my husband who handles things like this,” she continued.

My order was already waiting, and once hers was ready I helped carry it out to her car. I carefully placed the plastic bag of Styrofoam containers on the passenger seat and then buckled them in. I let her leave the parking lot first.