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Authors: Jennifer Steil
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until you see the blue gate with the bougainvillea climbing over it. Youâre welcome to come along for tea.â
She hadnât meant to invite him home, but the words slipped out. Could you even invite a man with ten bodyguards home for tea? She wasnât sure. Would they all come too? She would need a bigger teapot.
âIâm afraid I canât. Iâve got a national day of some sort tonight that I am afraid I canât get out of. Perhaps another time? Look.â He searched his coat pockets. âHereâs my card. Iâve only been here a week, so Iâm sure thereâs plenty more you could tell me. You are, after all, the only person who has managed to infiltrate my security team to get close enough to wound me.â
âI didnât wound you; the pomegranate did. You know weapons arenât properly regulated here. Besides, you arenât limping.â
âIâm limping on the inside. Iâd better be off; the guys are starting to get twitchy.â He gave her his hand, warm, thin-fingered, and dry, and vanished into the crowd.
Miranda looked down at the card in her hand. FINN FENWICK, BRITISH AMBASSADOR .
â
N O ONE WAS home when she got there. âMadina?â she called. âMosi?â Nothing. No one. Good. She put on the teakettle and tipped her bags of produce out onto the counter. The pomegranates were fat and yellow, a shiny blush of pink staining their sides. She rolled oneunder her palm, feeling the nubs of seeds pushing through the skin. If Madina were home, she would be tempted to tell her about Finn, and Miranda wanted to keep him all to herself for a little while longer.
Ever since VÃcenta left, her home had become a kind of hostel for lost and wandering souls. She didnât plan it that way. She had always loved living alone; she wasnât looking for housemates. They just kind of showed up, like stray kittens. Now she canât imagine life without friends wandering in and out of her house all day and night.
She had met Madina at the gym. It was a womenâs gym up in the ritzier part of town, and it was Mirandaâs first (and last) visit. Gyms hadnât exactly caught on in this country, and the few that existed outside of the luxury hotels were minimally equipped. She had tried the bicycle and the rowing machines, both of which were broken, before ending up on one of the two treadmills. They were the only things in the gym that worked, aside from a vibrating platform that one of the staff members told her would jiggle off fat.
She was mid-run, watching with great interest a heavy woman standing on the platform, the folds of her thighs flapping up and down as it vibrated, when Madina climbed onto the treadmill opposite. Even had she not been directly in Mirandaâs line of vision, she would have been hard to miss. Her thick black hair wasnât covered but pulled back in a ponytail. She was very dark, espresso rather than cappuccino, with dramatic cheekbones and enormous eyes. She was beautiful. But that wasnât the first thing Miranda noticed. No, the first thing she noticed was that the girl was wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt emblazoned with the words I AM A VIRGIN (this is an old T-shirt) in white. Which isnât something you see every day on the streets of this or any other Muslim city.
She spoke to Miranda first. âHow do you work this thing?â she said in flawless English. âI donât really do exercise.â
âYouâre at a gym,â Miranda pointed out. âExercise is kind of what itâs
about
. That platform aside,â she said, waving at the vibrating woman.
The girl laughed. âI thought maybe it would be a good place to meet some girls. I donât know anyone.â Miranda briefly recalled atime when she too visited gyms in the hopes of meeting girls but suspected this girlâs intentions were less salacious. Still, you never knew.
Panting slightly
She hadnât meant to invite him home, but the words slipped out. Could you even invite a man with ten bodyguards home for tea? She wasnât sure. Would they all come too? She would need a bigger teapot.
âIâm afraid I canât. Iâve got a national day of some sort tonight that I am afraid I canât get out of. Perhaps another time? Look.â He searched his coat pockets. âHereâs my card. Iâve only been here a week, so Iâm sure thereâs plenty more you could tell me. You are, after all, the only person who has managed to infiltrate my security team to get close enough to wound me.â
âI didnât wound you; the pomegranate did. You know weapons arenât properly regulated here. Besides, you arenât limping.â
âIâm limping on the inside. Iâd better be off; the guys are starting to get twitchy.â He gave her his hand, warm, thin-fingered, and dry, and vanished into the crowd.
Miranda looked down at the card in her hand. FINN FENWICK, BRITISH AMBASSADOR .
â
N O ONE WAS home when she got there. âMadina?â she called. âMosi?â Nothing. No one. Good. She put on the teakettle and tipped her bags of produce out onto the counter. The pomegranates were fat and yellow, a shiny blush of pink staining their sides. She rolled oneunder her palm, feeling the nubs of seeds pushing through the skin. If Madina were home, she would be tempted to tell her about Finn, and Miranda wanted to keep him all to herself for a little while longer.
Ever since VÃcenta left, her home had become a kind of hostel for lost and wandering souls. She didnât plan it that way. She had always loved living alone; she wasnât looking for housemates. They just kind of showed up, like stray kittens. Now she canât imagine life without friends wandering in and out of her house all day and night.
She had met Madina at the gym. It was a womenâs gym up in the ritzier part of town, and it was Mirandaâs first (and last) visit. Gyms hadnât exactly caught on in this country, and the few that existed outside of the luxury hotels were minimally equipped. She had tried the bicycle and the rowing machines, both of which were broken, before ending up on one of the two treadmills. They were the only things in the gym that worked, aside from a vibrating platform that one of the staff members told her would jiggle off fat.
She was mid-run, watching with great interest a heavy woman standing on the platform, the folds of her thighs flapping up and down as it vibrated, when Madina climbed onto the treadmill opposite. Even had she not been directly in Mirandaâs line of vision, she would have been hard to miss. Her thick black hair wasnât covered but pulled back in a ponytail. She was very dark, espresso rather than cappuccino, with dramatic cheekbones and enormous eyes. She was beautiful. But that wasnât the first thing Miranda noticed. No, the first thing she noticed was that the girl was wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt emblazoned with the words I AM A VIRGIN (this is an old T-shirt) in white. Which isnât something you see every day on the streets of this or any other Muslim city.
She spoke to Miranda first. âHow do you work this thing?â she said in flawless English. âI donât really do exercise.â
âYouâre at a gym,â Miranda pointed out. âExercise is kind of what itâs
about
. That platform aside,â she said, waving at the vibrating woman.
The girl laughed. âI thought maybe it would be a good place to meet some girls. I donât know anyone.â Miranda briefly recalled atime when she too visited gyms in the hopes of meeting girls but suspected this girlâs intentions were less salacious. Still, you never knew.
Panting slightly
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