That night I dream I’m walking toward a lush oasis, just over the horizon. I walk and walk, but no matter how many steps I take, it never seems to get any closer. Then I start sinking into the sand…

I wake on my own to the sun of a bright new day and the sight of Nabida and Raima setting up breakfast.

“We planned to let you sleep in,” Nabida says when she sees me sitting up in bed.

“No Zahir,” I guess, and silently curse my pussy for tightening at the sound of his name.

Raima’s eyes widen at my use of his first name without the title but answers, “No, he will not come to you today.”

I think about that. Breathe…and push through the semi-permanent lust haze to ask, “Did his secretary say when he’d be back?”

“No, we were not given this information,” Raima answers.

“But I’m still not allowed to get dressed?”

Raima shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot while Nabida throws me a sympathetic look. Raima says, “If you wish, you are still allowed a robe.”

I take the robe offered to me after my morning bath and force myself to think more about my sex problem with Zahir. This time, I do it while standing over the breakfast table with the smart speaker playing soft Arabian pop in the background.

“Have you finished?” Nabida asks when I’ve clocked more time staring into space than eating.

I blink and nod. Silently adding, finished but not satisfied.

As the women clear the breakfast table, I ask, “Do I still get my phone call tomorrow?”

“Yes, as far as I know,” Nabida answers.

“Good,” I say. I’m forcing myself to keep the robe on, even if it feels like a brillo pad against my skin compared to the pure air I’ve become used to. “Good…”

Day Twenty-Four. I pull an Annie and focus on tomorrow as I push myself through the rest of the day.

Zahir doesn’t show up for breakfast on Day Twenty-Five. That’s fine.

“May I have a pen and paper to wrote Zahir a note?” I ask Raima when she appears with my requested Bar Exam study guide.

Nabida fetches me a single piece of stationary and a heavy pen. They both watch me as a I write…and are probably surprised when I stop at a single word.

“Can you take this to him?” I ask after folding the paper into a tucked-in triangle, like I am still in high school. Except this note isn’t of the “check yes or no if you like me” variety I considered sending Asir at the height of my school girl crush.

A few hours later, I chat with Sylvie, putting extra effort into keeping my voice clear and engaged. Then I ask if I can talk to Holt. Just for a minute…

Our conversation is stupid awkward, and I have the feeling he is going to have a hell of a time explaining to Sylvie what we discussed.

But I know Holt will relay my message. He’s responsible like that—especially with Sylvie by his side. And I’m right to trust him. Less than thirty minutes after I hang up, Zahir comes crashing through the suite’s doors with my note in his hand, nowhere near the appointed dinner hour.

He growls something to Nabida and Raima in Arabic that must mean “get the hell out,” because they drop their mop and duster, respectively, and scurry from the room. Like squirrels away from an incoming storm.

But I don’t run. I’m not from around here and trust we Jersey chycks know how to handle inclement weather. I stand up and come around the one-chair table like I’m wearing a heavy-duty rain poncho and not just my bare skin.

“Hey, Zahir,” I say with my best smart-aleck smile. “Wassup?”

“You called Holt to request he provide you with a vibrator?!” he asks, his voice barely level.

I blink innocently. “Well, yeah. You’re not seeing to my sexual needs, so I called my wali in the hopes he could negotiate to send me something that would.”

For a moment, he stares at me, outrage and plain old rage warring for face time. “This is not something you do. You do not call another man and tell him you are in need of a sex toy because I am not a satisfactory lover.”

I give him another innocent blink. “But talking to your wali is standard protocol if a wife is unhappy with her treatment. It was written in our marriage contract...dude, have you never been with someone who actually reads her contracts?” I suck on my teeth and shake my head. “Easily fixed with the next wife. No biggie. Now you know. Don’t marry a lawyer if you want some dumb broad who will let you torture her for shits and giggles.”

He takes a step toward me. “I will never grant this request. In fact, you will be punished tenfold just for making it. I will return for dinner this evening, and this time, you will sit on the floor beside my feet. Like the dog you claimed you did not want to be. And that will only be the beginning.”

I stare at him for a beat. Then I shrug and say, “Aw, well, it was worth a try. I guess I’ll just keep using my fingers for the next five months since you’re not up to the task of satisfying me, and you’re too uptight to let me have a vibrator. When I return home, I’m going to find a man who can get the job done properly. Maybe take a lover in the afternoon...”

Zahir stares at me, and I swear I can see a vein in his neck set to pop. But instead of backing down, I ask, “Have you ever heard that song? Oh, Z, if not, we got to correct that right now!” Then I tell the smart speaker to play ‘Gloria’ by Laura Branigan.

The room fills up with music, but before we can get to the lyric I referenced, his voice slices across the room, commanding the smart speaker to, “Stop music.”

The song cuts off like the speaker is as afraid of Zahir as Nabida and Raima.

“You will tell me now why you have reverted to this behavior,” he says, his tone sharp and dangerous as a sword. “You will explain to me why you disparaged my sexual prowess to Holt, and then sent me a note with the word ‘Cal-Mart’ written on it. Are you trying to make some kind of threat against me? Against Holt?”

“What?” I say, jerking my head back. “No! Why would I threaten Holt? First of all, Cal-Mart sells vibrators, which is what I wanted him to send me in the first place. And secondly, he’s my only point of negotiation here. Why would I threaten him?”

“Then what is the meaning of this note!” he demands, shaking the piece of unfolded paper at me.

“Oh, that…?” Strangely, this is where I lose my attitude. This is where it becomes hard to maintain my tough Jersey Girl act. Both my voice and accent falter as I answer, “That’s my safe word.”