I awoke late in the afternoon to Atoussa poking her head into my room. “Hello Atoussa.” “Hello. You don’t want to sleep in much too late or you won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.” “I know I’ve been up an hour or so but haven’t gotten out of bed because of shear laziness.” I stood as Atoussa exited and proceeded to go in search of sustenance. Up the winding white staircase and into the bright kitchen filled with paintings, Sudanese baskets, Moroccan tiles, Turkish amulets, Thai mirrors, Indian prints, and a calendar of transvestites in various poses and garb from her friend in California. The one tall window looks out onto a hillside, a magnolia dominates the view followed by wisteria creeping up the neighbor’s wall. Cheyene, Atoussa’s son, stood with fluffy slippers on
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