By Deborah Rodriguez
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Extra resources for A Cup of Friendship
Betting was forbidden in the Koran. He chuckled to himself at the memory of Sunny bringing a big TV home one afternoon. It was in a huge box, sticking halfway out of the trunk of her car, the hood tied down with twine to keep the thing from falling out as the car bounced over the severe potholes and plentiful rocks in the road. Sunny had gotten out of the car, slammed her door shut, and turned to Ahmet. She flipped her hair out of her face, put her hands on her hips, and said, “You’re going to love this, Ahmet.
The smells of dung and sweat and spices and diesel exhaust fumes merged into a heady mix that reminded Sunny why she loved Kabul and why she had chosen to stay. She parked near Chicken Street. Here stall after stall of Afghan souvenirs—handmade carpets, woven pashmina, turbans, clothing, jewelry, boxes, and belts of the extraordinary native blue lapis, and the hand-carved dark wood furniture from Nuristan that she loved—extended two full blocks. Today it was unusually quiet. The shop owners raised their heads and smiled eagerly as Sunny walked by, hoping for a sale.
She’d just know. She’d turn around, and there he’d be, with that megawatt smile of his. She let out a snort, hoping nobody heard it over the fray. Of course he wouldn’t walk in anytime soon, because he’d been gone only two months. His assignments took three, sometimes four months, and then he’d come home for as many weeks, at most. Tommy, you fool, she wanted to rail at him when her longing was especially fierce. How could you stay away from me for so long? For what? For adventure? The thrill? The money?
A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez