Image by Freepik If there is an eternity, Iya Farouk will stand discombobulated in it. Perhaps she will gaze around and wonder why she isn’t on the road anymore. Perhaps they will let her peer down so she can see her body, garbed in the sunshine-coloured dress, bent like a swastika. Years ago, she was the stupid tomato girl who wheedled and begged and told stories so you could see reason with her: she had to roll in the mud to get her customer to buy at the price he did or tell fake stories that her neighbour stole whole baskets of tomatoes and pepper from her room. “If I lie,” she would touch her lips with her finger, pointing to heaven, “let me die.” Lots of times, after a bargain was not going my way, I would start to walk away from her corner—it was all I could call it, her little space on the culvert with a dirty tarpaulin shade—and she would plead with me to come back. Her desperation gave me a perverse joy. A year ago, before I moved to my apartment, I watched ...
Late-night stories of love, campus romance, heartbreak, and confessions. For students and young adults who love spicy late-night tales.
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