Chapter Twelve
Perhaps inside every Salafi woman sleeps a wolf, hungry for s*x. An octopus with seventy arms, each arm a houri. Perhaps, perhaps.
Or perhaps Ama al-Rahman simply fled to the paradise of our sweet, tender love to forget something. Assault, perhaps. r**e.
To avenge something I knew nothing about, through the pure feelings, deep kisses, noble outpourings of emotion, and abounding revelations of our lovemaking.
All I knew was that for our relationship to continue, it had to remain completely secret.
‘Would you give me your phone number?’ I asked her once, as we began our rehearsals for paradise.
‘That’s just not possible, habibi.’
‘You’ve got two mobiles; I just need the number of one, to send you messages every so often.’
‘There’s no need, habibi.’
‘You’d rather an ol
