“She likes to nap midmorning, and again after lunch. She also likes a good brushing every few days, and a full bowl of fresh water available to her at all times. She’s kind of high maintenance—the opposite of me.”
He scans my yoga pants, cuffs frosted with sand, my too-big sweatshirt, and the messy knot of my hair. He sounds appreciative when he says, “I think you’re too focused on your camera to be high maintenance.”
I am; I care more about perfecting my photographs than perfectingthe way I look, and I like that about myself. I think Mati might, too, because he’s still gazing into my eyes, like he can see my dreams playing out on an invisible film reel. Somehow, I’m not uncomfortable.
He says softly, “Kaishta.”
I recognize the word, the perfect intonation of his accent. “You said that the other day. What does it mean?”
He smiles, guilty, like he’s been caught with a fistful of candy, then translates: “Beautiful.”
Okay,nowI’m uncomfortable.
But, like, wonderfully, gloriously, amazingly uncomfortable.
MATI
She looks out over the water,
face flushed.
I have flattered her,
and I will never be sorry.
Sheisbeautiful,
an impossible sort of beautiful—
a mirror-still lake,
a soaring hawk,
a meadow of wildflowers.
She is fragile,
and she is valorous,
and for me, she is fleeting.
“Afghans are not evil,” I tell her,
circling back to our earlier conversation.
She turns her face to mine;
I can see that she wants to hear more,
that she is open to correcting misconception.
“We live our lives charitably,” I say.
“We try to be humble and kind.”
I lean forward to gather a great scoop of sand.
“Hold out your hands.”
