Sabine Kadi sits alone in Al-Shams Cafe. Every few minutes, she takes a small sip of qahwa from the demitasse on her table.

There are women in the space with their hair exposed, but Sabine wears a loose-fitting hijab to better deter unwanted attention. She cannot hide her body, however. Or, she could, but she refuses to wear clothes that don’t fit. Even beneath the black abaya, her curves are unmistakable, but plenty of other Arab women have such bodies, and neither do they hide the shapes of their breasts, hips, and buttocks—only their flesh.

She reaches for her cup and, noticing the point of one of her knives peek out from beneath her cuff, she moves closer to the table so she needn’t extend her arms. Under her abaya is a bodysuit of bullet- and slash-proof material, which Jack had custom-made for her. Thin gauntlets of the breathable armored fabric keep her forearms safe from her blades. The palms of the gloves are open and its fingers cover only the first knuckle.

Sabine hopes that Jamila will be the one who comes, and not Mehdi.

She puts down her drink and, as if bidden by her thoughts, Mehdi Al-Wadi bin Youssef al-Hadid walks into the cafe. Sabine knows only his first name, and he only knows hers. He says nothing, ignoring her en route to the counter where he orders shai haliib mafi alsskkar. Cup in hand, he sits at another table and continues to ignore her.

She knows the drill. Mehdi will not speak to her in a public space, and barely in private. He will not look at her except to leer. And he will not respect her, ever. She takes another sip of qahwa and chases it with water, not because she dislikes the taste but because the air is dry.

Glancing at Mehdi, she catches him leering. He’s tracing the curve of her significant bust with his eyes. He doesn’t break his gaze away immediately. He wants her to know he’s looking, but he eventually averts his eyes so no one else can catch him offending Allah. He finishes his milk tea, sans sugar, rises from his seat and leaves.

Taking one last sip of her coffee, Sabine stops at the first hint of silt against her tongue. She won’t rush for Mehdi. After sitting for a moment and taking a few, long, deliberate breaths, she leaves the cup on the table and follows him out into the street.

It’s pleasantly cool, but the night is dark. The scant streetlights do little. Some would say it’s no place for a woman, alone, and Sabine bristles at the thought. She rejects that her vagina and her breasts should indicate that she is in greater danger than Mehdi, his penis and his testicles, but they do. Idealistic dreams aside, she is not stupid. And so, she is armed, and not alone. And she knows that Mehdi isn’t either.

She walks five paces behind him, looking at his slightly stooped shoulders. He is surly and stoic but tall and handsome. She wants him, but she does not like him. The feelings are mutual. She will not let him have her.

At a secluded part of the lane, Mehdi turns to her. He says nothing, but she knows his question.

“You need follow me,” she says, in less-than-perfect Arabic that has languished since she left Algeria as a teen.

His nostrils flare and he sighs through his nose, but remains mute. He stands aside and Sabine takes the lead. They wind down alleys until they reach a quiet road where a white delivery van is parked. The road is otherwise abandoned. The city is quiet. The night sky is the deepest blue and awash with stars. Mehdi knows what is in the truck. He will not make small talk with this woman.

The driver’s side door opens and a tall, bald man steps out. He is naturally pale, but is tanned like someone who lives outdoors. Like Mehdi, the man is also surly. Lean and muscular, he looks a lot like Jack, right down to the vibrant blue eyes. Sabine knows she has a type. She knows that Mehdi knows they are fucking. She hopes it angers him.

“Ya sharmuta,” Mehdi mutters.

“Get fucked with a shovel handle up your ass,” Sabine replies in Arabic.

She curses so much better than she can otherwise speak. She knows that Mehdi wants to kill her for the insult. It may have been foolish to disparage him, but she is confident she can handle him, and find another courier if need be.

He turns to her with obvious menace.

“Back off, asshole,” the pale man says. His Australian accent is thick, but Mehdi understands him perfectly.

“Fucking American.” Mehdi knows the man is not American.

“Australian,” the man replies. “Dick.”

“All the same. Fucking white people. You fuck this black, slut bitch?”

“This is last time, Mehdi,” says Sabine, rueing again her imperfect conversational Arabic. “You never will again be him to return Egypt her treasures.”

Mehdi opens his mouth to retort but his attention is diverted as his partner emerges into the lane with a small duffel over his shoulder. The Australian reaches for his gun, but the new arrival holds up his hands.

“As-salaamu ’alaykum.”

“Wa’alaykumu s-salaam,” Sabine replies, stepping away from Mehdi.

Medhi takes a step away, himself, and gestures at the newcomer while eying Sabine. “I pay you, whore,” says Mehdi. “Here is your money.”

“La,” says Mehdi’s partner. No. “I want to see the goods first.”

“At least he is no fool,” Sabine says to Mehdi.

“Ayreh fiik,” he replies. Fuck you.

“Telhas qadamaat wa kol kharaat,” she answers. Lick my feet and eat my shit.

Mehdi’s partner inhales a sharp breath at the intensity of the insult.

Sabine smiles. She’s enjoying herself; Arabs are so insulted by feet. Mehdi’s words have no effect on her, but her retorts are boiling his blood.

The Australian opens the back of the truck and Mehdi, muttering and grousing, surveys the goods with his partner. The jewel of the haul is a turquoise wedjat. Everything they expect is there. Medhi’s partner thrusts the duffel into the Australian’s arms. He brings it to the passenger side door, puts it on the seat and does a cursory count, checking the stacks of British pound notes to be sure that none are obviously fake.

“It is real money, manyak,” the partner insists.

“Fuck if I trust your rag-headed ass,” the Australian replies. His accent lends a comic air to the crude insult, dulling the edge.

The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun, but Sabine is quicker. With a flick of her arm, the dagger beneath her right sleeve shoots into her hand and she stabs the man’s wrist before he can fire. The gun falls to the dusty road and he howls, clutching at the wound. Mehdi tries to draw his own weapon, but Sabine’s other knife is already in her left hand. She presses the point beneath his chin.

She speaks with only her eyes. Mehdi puts his hands up and she takes his gun. The Australian retrieves the other from the ground and puts them both in the duffel.

Sabine backs away, still brandishing her knife. “Come on, dingo,” she says to the Australian, being careful not to use his name but wanting to call him something. “Time to go. Y’allah.”

They retreat on foot.

*

Sabine’s heart is finally slowing as she and the Australian near her hotel.

“Rag-head, Harris?” she says. “Really?”

He looks at her, confused, and she motions to her hijab.

He makes a face. “I thought that was just bullshit,” he says of her headscarf.

She contorts her lips, nose, and forehead into a look of utter displeasure.

“I’m not your husband,” Harris replies to the look.

“I’m not even married, Harris. What’s your point?”

He shrugs and makes the face of a frustrated child. “Aren’t Muslim women supposed to be … I don’t know … chaste?”

Sabine’s lip curls. She shakes her head at him and they continue in silence.

In the hotel, she walks to the concierge and retrieves her key. The man at the desk is well-trained to treat her with a semblance of respect, but she knows he wants to address Harris instead. She knows he thinks she’s a sharmuta with her white john. Recalling his remark about chastity, she now understands that her “white john” also thinks she’s a whore.

In the room, Harris throws himself down into a chair and kicks off his shoes. The familiarity he exhibits chafes at Sabine. She realizes she doesn’t want him there. She wants his handsome, male chauvinist ass to leave. She wants him to be Jack.

Looking at the man mere feet from her, she tries to convince herself that she could have him and that it would mean nothing; that his low opinion of her is inconsequential to her enjoyment of him; that she could just discard him once finished. But Jack’s influence nags at her. His constant talk about dignity, about love and affection and feelings and meaning, all still makes her roll her eyes.

She ignores the crack Jack’s created in the wall between her body and her emotions. She pushes thoughts of him away.

“Take off your clothes,” she tells Harris. “Come take a shower with me.”

*

Sabine lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling as Harris sleeps next to her. He is a quiet sleeper, as innocuous as someone could be aside from taking up space, but still his presence annoys her.

She nudges him. He stirs but doesn’t wake, so she nudges him again.

“Wake up, Harris.”

“Huh-wha?” Harris says, confused, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“Get dressed.”

“Get dressed?” he asks, still not comprehending. He looks at his phone. “Sabine, it’s 4 a.m.”

“Yup, time to go,” she answers. She adjusts the silk scarf covering her curls, protecting them from the ravages of sleep.

He looks at her. He comprehends the words, but his expression reflects his lingering uncertainty. “Are you kicking me out?” he asks.

“Are you thick?” she replies. “Yes, Harris. Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. Go away.”

He frowns, but doesn’t protest. He dresses without a word and gathers his things.

Sabine rifles through the bag of money and throws two stacks of pound sterling notes toward him. He looks at the money on the floor and then at her. He frowns again, but picks up the stacks and puts them in his own bag.

As he walks to the door, he stops and turns back toward the bed. “Sabine … ”

“Bye, Harris.”

His mouth remains open for a moment as he remains still, looking at her in the bed. She doesn’t look away. She is naked but for the silk headscarf and she makes no move to cover herself. She looks at him with an unfaltering gaze devoid of anger and malice, but equally devoid of happiness and warmth. Her expression is one of bored annoyance.

Harris is angry, but he suppresses his rage. A subtle jag travels from his head, through his shoulders and torso, and down his arms. His left hand twitches in a gesture that says: I don’t understand.

Sabine opens her eyes a little wider and she shrugs her shoulders. She nods toward the exit. He turns and leaves.

At the sound of the heavy, reinforced door closing, she sits back against the headboard with her hands in her lap. She retrieves her phone and looks at the thread between her and Jack. It’s full of messages from him to which she never replied. His tally is easily thrice hers. She knows that she should treat him better than she does, but sometimes she can’t muster the energy to care. Or, more accurately, she can’t afford to care. The hard exterior that protects her would crumble beneath the weight of such vulnerability.

She considers sending him a message. It’s 2 a.m. in Klippeborg. She imagines he is sleeping. After companionship, sleep is Jack’s most beloved thing, especially after the almost three years he spent not sleeping, following the near-fatal assault.

Sabine knows that she is the only person for whom there is an exception in Jack’s Do Not Disturb protocol and that she’d wake him if she reached out. She knows, too, that he would delight at the disturbance from her, whereas he would rage if anyone else dared to rouse him. She is special to him and she cannot understand why. No matter how often she ignores him, no matter how callously she treats him, he doesn’t withdraw his affection.

He doesn’t let any other woman treat him in such a way. Sabine knows that, and it makes her feel horrible that he lets her get away with it. She has witnessed him salt the earth against people who have provoked his displeasure. Knowing the extent to which he loves her only makes her feel worse.

She puts down her mobile and closes her eyes. As good at compartmentalizing as she is with a knife, sleep comes easily.