We buy a plane ticket. Not to one of those beautiful white-sand beaches in Hawaii where the colors and pineapples bloom; instead my knees ache with the strenuous monotony of a 15-hour flight to a new home. We hire a maid. Her name is Noor. She teaches me to wrap my face and hair properly, to stay out of the way, cooks our dinner at night-tabouleh, falafels, never my rice and beans. Noor covers her bruises. She makes me want to tell her about my own, only I can’t because mine aren’t on my skin and I read that I should never speak ill of my husband If I mean to survive. At night I listen for your footsteps, wait for the lights to go out. I hide underneath those rags in fear of what will be to come. The bruises will spread from the inside and finish me off; that you’ll finally lose control and I’ll be grateful for these wrappings to hide the swelling. I tread carefully to avoid the end(s) and purge myself of all I love.
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