He sits across from her in a silk tie and slightly awkwardly skewed smile. She thinks he is nothing more than the slight figure of a boy with a close shave, too strong aftershave. He sits cocky with his right leg over his left, and outspread arms perched on the back of the sofa. She is faintly enraged at his shoes for touching their carpet.

In her prolonged silence, the conversation swiftly turns to her father’s well-known theories on the politics of back home. Yes, our Prime Minister is doing quite the shoddy job and the military seems to be preparing for a coup! Hah! But don’t you know it, his wife has been sneaking off with one of his ministers, that’s why he’s so angry all of the time. I say it’s always a woman behind one of these great wars. Women, women, women, the ruination of man!

She shuts her eyes momentarily for fear of exhaling a sharp retort, and waits for her father to release the bitterness he held in so well over dinner. She stands and begins to pour tea into the elaborate teacups. As she tilts the teapot, the boy glances at the ruby-coloured broach she’s used to pin up the right flap of her hijab, an intricate butterfly. His mouth stays vaguely open as he quickly redirects his eyes and nods his head at some other politically charged statement her father presents.

Her eyes, somewhat angered and amused at once, remain fixed on his patronizing, contorted face, his sweating brow. She can see the remnants of dinner stuck between his two front teeth, and for a moment of distraction, she loses her balance and sends the hot tea cascading over his feet.