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“It was a fairly large house, larger than all our previous dwellings. There were two pinkwashed, picture- windowed, orange gable-roofed storeys, encompassing eight rooms, and an adjoining, presently shuttered garage. A friendly, unsymmetrical house, with pink bougainvillea hanging over the iron-lace decorated, semi-circular front porch and ivy climbing from the walls to the uneven gables.”

“I had looked at him and the surrounding noise faded away and time seemed to come to a standstill. And in that moment of crystal clear clarity, I had known with unwavering certainty that whatever beckoned in the future, he was going to figure in it. Our destinies were irrevocably intertwined. It was not rational, it was electrifying.”

“Granna carried a card in his pocket that said ‘Travish Zarafshan is deaf and mute and doesn’t know sign language,’ and every time the military police stopped him in the street to check his ID, he showed them that. He got a real kick out of doing that too, but Nana didn’t at all find it amusing.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And that thing you just did...” “This?” he inquired, puckering his lips again at me. “Yes, that. The blowfish beat you to that, jackass. How do you like jackass?” “Heeeeeeee-HAW!” he cried, punching both fists into the air. “Stick to something more loving though. Then I won’t have the urge to bray every time you call me.”

“Sanne intervened to ask the title of my book, and Isolde said, scathingly, “'Love on the Infinity Express'. That sounds like the next big brainy best-seller, doesn't it?” “Sounds like total hand-holding all the way from Samanbar to Alsalem,” said Arriana. “Dear Lea, no, that title won't do. Couldn't you come up with something more jazzy? Like 'The Dashing Soldier Boy's Ravishing Desire'? And, yes, come up with a titillating cover too, alright? Bare breasts, male and female, with a fuchsia color scheme is the way to go.”

“Ger,” he said. “My cousin Ger. Yours too by adoption. Remember him? The one you have yet to meet.” “What about him?” “Pay attention. I said I can get him to beta read for you.” “What? Why?” “Why not? He’s got plenty of practice. His little sister, Bonnie, forces him to beta read all her namby pamby stuff. We can slip your draft into the stack and see what he has to say. Be warned though. He makes Bonnie cry.” “Does he?” “Uh-huh. He’s like Pa in that regard. They expect perfection everywhere and they can’t lie their way out of a paper bag when they encounter imperfection. So, won’t be great for your morale or anything, but your draft will get pounded into shape.”