Page 91 - A Woman Is No Man

absently at the orange sky through the window. But then he cleared his
throat and said, “Let’s go out.”
Isra tried to hide her excitement. The only time she left the house was

occasionally on Sundays, when Khaled and Fareeda went grocery shopping
and took Sarah with them. When they didn’t take Sarah, Fareeda would ask
Isra to stay behind to look after her, afraid to leave her in the house
unsupervised. Adam hadn’t taken Isra out since her first night in Brooklyn.
Outside the air was crisp, the streetlamps already glowing. They strolled
together down Fifth Avenue, past the butcher shops, supermarkets, bakeries,
and dollar stores. The streets were just as lively as they had been the first

time Isra had walked them. Traffic congested the roads, and crowds of
pedestrians swept in and out of the shops and eateries. The sidewalks were
worn and dirty, and the air smelled faintly of raw fish, which Adam said
came from the Chinese fish market at the corner of the block. Every now
and then, dark green gates framed wide staircases that descended into the
sidewalks.

“These are called subway stations,” Adam said, promising to take her
on the train soon. Isra walked closely beside him, one hand over her plump
belly, the other dangling freely. She wished he would hold her hand, but he
sucked on a cigarette and stared ahead.
They crossed the street to a shop called Elegante’s, where Adam bought
Isra a slice of pizza. He said it was the best pizzeria in town. Isra had never
tasted anything like it. She bit into the warm, thin bread slathered in cheese,

sucked the savory sauce from her fingertips. She marveled at the rich
combination of flavors, the comfort they brought her even though they were
brand-new.
“Did you like it?” Adam asked when she had finished.
“Yes,” she said, licking the last bit of sauce from the corners of her
mouth.

Adam laughed. “Do you have room for dessert?” She nodded eagerly.
He bought her an ice cream cone from a Mister Softee truck. Vanilla
swirl with rainbow sprinkles. Isra devoured it. The ice cream they sold in
her village dukan—strawberry sorbet or mulberry fruit served plainly on a
stick—was nothing like this. This was creamy and so rich.
Adam watched her eat with a proud smile, as though she were a child.
“Another?”

She brought both hands to her belly. “Alhamdullilah. I’m full.”