"If you behave," he tells his thirty-nine-year-old neice Sirine, "I'll tell you the whole story this time."
"You always say I'm too young to hear the whole story," Sirine says. She carves a tiny bit of peel from a lemon for her uncle's coffee. They're up in the bluish white predawn, both of them chronically early risers and chronically sleepy.
Her uncle looks at her over his glasses. The narrow ovals slide down his nose; he tries to press them back into place. "Do I say that?" I wonder why. Well, what are you now, a half-centry yet?"
"I'm thirty-nine. And a half."
He makes a dismissive little flick with his fingers. "Too young. I'll save the juicy parts for when you're a half-century."
"Oh boy, I can't wait."
"Yes, that's how the young are. No one wants to wait." He takes a ceremonial sip of coffee and nods. "So this is the moralless story of Abdelrahman Salahadin, my favorite cousin, who had an incurable addiction to selling himself and faking his drowning."
"It sounds long," Sirine says. "Haven't I already heard this one?"
"It's a good, short story, Miss Hurry Up American. It's the story of how to love," he says.
Sirine puts her hands into her uncombable hair, closes her eyes. "I'm going to be late for work again."
"There you have it-the whole world is late for work, and all the faucets leak too-what can be done? So it begins."
-Diana Abu-Jaber, Crescent
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