But the way Aziza held Driss’s gaze had said otherwise. She was the one who had given him Aicha’s name, after all. He holds one out to her.
The Qandisa looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and so he shrugs and bites into his share, honey warm on his tongue, the dough spongy in his mouth.
He can’t hold back a smile. “No one makes anything better than Aziza does.”
He sets the bag beside him, giving her the choice. Driss watches her reach inside, her fingers long and slender, her nail beds neat. She smells like the river, fresh and clean, andhe has to stop himself from burying his nose in her hair.
She studies the sfenj—not as if she doesn’t know what it is, but as if she’s recalling a distant memory. A good one, judging by the wistfulness in her eyes.
He marvels at her emotions, at the subtle shifts that tell him stories. Her hum as she eats Aziza’s food is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.
“See?” he asks. “This is what you would do as her. As Aicha.”
She considers that, looking out at the water. He wonders if he makes sense. There’s a trio of birthmarks by her right eye, fanning out like stars.
“Normal things, you know? If you’re not fond of food, you could, I don’t know, ride a motorbike or take up painting. You could even enroll in school, though I don’t recommend that one,” he says. He’s about to explain why when she scrunches her nose, and then he can’t help it.
He bursts out laughing. She looks stunned, but before he knows it, she’s laughing, too. He breathes in every beat of it, letting the melody fill his lungs, his heart, his soul. The reeds sway and the river titters, enamored by her the same way he is.
She leans into him, lost in her laugh, a hand rising to his shoulder to steady herself before she realizes what she’s done. She stops abruptly, and Driss nearly catches her hand to tell her no, don’t stop, it’s okay. She grips one hand in the other, tight in her lap, as if to stop it from straying again. When she averts her eyes a little shyly, he has to bite theinside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like mad.
Say something.
“Oh!” he says suddenly, remembering. He pulls out his Rubik’s Cube. It’s not quite as finished as it usually is before he gives it to Aziza for the final turn. He gives it to Aicha anyway. She takes it gingerly, studying it before turning a row and examining it every which way.
“What is your name?” she asks suddenly.
Driss stammers it out as if it was never his. It’s never sounded so horrible.
“Driss,” she says, testing its weight. When he manages to look at her again, she’s holding something in her hand and studying it with great interest. “What is this?”
“Wha— That,” he says, trying to snatch it back, “is my cell phone.”
His hand knocks the cracked screen in their struggle. Aicha pulls it away and stares at the photo on his lock screen.
“Aziza,” he explains, “and me.” It’s his favorite photo of them. She was smiling wide enough that he could see the gaps where she’d lost teeth, and he was matching it. Aicha stares. She traces a thumb over the curve of his smile like it’s an impossible thing.
“You... love her.”
She seems confused by the fact. She makes it sound impossible.
“Yes,” he says as the sky shifts, bubblegum shades brightening. He thinks he can understand her disbelief. “People are still monsters and heathens. They destroy and hurt andruin. But there are good people, too. We love and care and... live.”
The silence is filled with the sound of her twisting the Rubik’s Cube to and fro.She’s a natural, he thinks, but doesn’t want to alarm her.
“Live,” Aicha repeats eventually.
He nods when she looks up, and he can see the questions simmering behind her gaze. She hands him the cube as if she’s solved one every day. He takes it and she follows the curve of his mouth.
“Life is like a Rubik’s Cube,” something compels him to say. “It starts out perfect, like this, and then it slowly complicates, making us sort through the twists and turns. It’s easier for some than others.”
Aicha contemplates his words. “I have lived an eternity yet I have not lived at all.”
Driss crumples the wax paper from the sfenj and tucks the Rubik’s Cube back in his pocket. There’s still honey on his tongue, like a promise. The day’s still young, full of possibility. It’s a way of thinking he’s never had before.
“I know,” he tells her as he gets to his feet and holds out his hand. Anyone who says the Qandisa’s name frees her from her curse, the fable goes. Driss wants more than that—more than her freedom. And if she would give him a chance, he would give her everything. “But you still can.”
She takes it.
