Repeat the words over and over again. Someone hands you a small booklet, the Arabic words printed in beautiful, woven calligraphy, letters dancing so gracefully, but you are not.
There is something about the Egyptian woman; he can’t put his finger on it. Something about the tilt of her hips, the sparkle in her eyes when she laughs, the flirtatious hands.
If you’re in a family where two out of three will climb on a chair and scream at the cockroach below, someone has to step down and kill it with a slipper. That someone is usually me.