“There’s not a lot to say,” I shrugged, taking a piece of pita as well. I grinned at him, making eye contact. I reminded myself that I had to keep my life under wraps. That mention of my mother and father wouldn’t do me any good—it would just bring tears to my eyes. “What about yourself?”
“Ha. I don’t believe that for a second,” Rami said. “You certainly have a life here. A family back home. Hobbies. Interests.”
“Ah. Interests. I can do that,” I said, chuckling. “For one, I like to teach.”
“Obviously,” Rami said in stride. “But that’s your job. What do you do when you’re out of school? What does that little American brain think about?”
“Not so little, thank you very much,” I said, lifting my chin. “But if you must know, I’m an avid reader. I’m on my fifth book this month.”
“Children’s books?” he asked, swatting my shoulder.
“Ha.”
“I know, I know. My humor makes me quite a catch.” Rami’s eyes glittered with a kind of certainty, knowing that I got his humor instantly. His sarcasm rang clearly, much like American guys I was used to. But he had a certain spark to him, as well.
Suddenly, I realized my wine glass was empty. My head spun slightly, from just one glass.
“Do you want another?” Rami asked me.
I gave him a shrug, suddenly ready to dive into more conversation with him. I didn’t want the date to end—if a date was really what I was calling it, in my head. “Sure.”
I followed him to the stall, tossing out the paper plate we’d eaten from. We waited in line, laughing with one another, as Rami told me his interests, his hobbies.
“I actually love basketball,” he told me, after he ordered two more wines. “It gives you this incredible rush, you know? You’re swept up in this sea of people and energy and then, suddenly, the ball’s in the hoop and you’re blasting down the court again. It’s incredible. I can’t believe more people aren’t into it.”
“I’ve never heard it described so eloquently,” I told him, taking the glass of wine. I felt my cheeks grow red. “I mean, everyone in South Dakota plays basketball, but they kind of just grunt about it. Nothing poetic.”
“Those of us from Al-Jarra like a certain level of poetry to everything,” Rami laughed. “I could describe this wine poetically—with a hint of tartness, a wood-like quality. But then I’d be lying, because I don’t know a single thing about wine. Only that I like to drink it.”
“Me too,” I admitted, joining him in laughter.
We strolled through the other side of the market, finding ourselves in front of a dessert station. Rami was speaking about himself in a slightly self-centered way, about his awards in various areas of his university degree. But I found that he was very clearly listening to what I said, that he held my words in his head.
“So that’s why you decided to move over here?” he asked me, after I’d muttered something about the scholarship I’d gotten to work in Al-Jarra. “For the money? Or was it something else that drove you? A desire to see the world?”
The personal question felt bizarre, especially since I hadn’t had a real, fully formed conversation with a man who wasn’t my father in several months. I tilted my head, trying to see what was behind his eyes. Trying to find the reason for the question.
“I was fascinated with your culture,” I told him, truthfully. “And I was only 23 at the time. I wanted to stretch out across the world and discover…I don’t know, what I was meant to be.”
Of course, this was true. But there was so much to it, as well. There was the fact of my mother’s diagnosis. There was the fact going home would necessarily mean that my mother would die. I was latched onto life in Al-Jarra now. And I was unable to return.
Perhaps he saw a flicker of this truth in my eyes. Perhaps he didn’t. But he stopped talking for a moment, thinking about my answer. Above us, a brightly colored bird glided over, casting a shadow across his perfect face.
“All right. If you won’t tell me everything about you, how old are you?” he finally asked, making me laugh.