Free A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez

errands. I must hurry—the rain. Let us meet back here in ten minutes.” Yazmina was both afraid and relieved. Sunny had been very careful to tell her not to leave Halajan’s side, but she wanted time to explore the clothing shops.
    “Do not leave this area and do not speak to anyone,” Halajan continued.
    “But Sunny gave me money for a new shalwaar kameez. ”
    Halajan quickly gestured to a store nearby. “That one is good. I’ll meet you there.”
    Halajan was frantic that she’d miss him. The sky grew dark, the clouds burst, and the rain was coming now, soaking her. She didn’t care. She rushed down the street without caution. Though one rarely saw a woman running on the streets of Kabul, she had to get to Rashif’s before he was gone. She stayed straight and fast, her heart racing to the beat of the downpour.
    When she got to his stall, she immediately realized she needn’t have worried. There he was, holding a large red and white Coca-Cola umbrella, his other hand in his pocket. He smiled at her and looked relieved to see her.
    “ Shukur Khodia , thank God,” he said softly as she drew near. He looked from right to left to be sure they wouldn’t be seen, but the street was empty because of the rain. He handed her the letter, wrinkled and damp, from his pocket. His fingers touched hers. They were warm, and he let them linger there for a moment.
    “Be safe, take care,” Halajan answered, pulling her hand back and quickly burying the letter in the folds of her chaderi . She smiled then, and opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her words got caught in her throat. She spun on her heel to hurry back to meet Yazmina.
    But there was Ahmet, waving to her from the corner. Her heart rapped hard against her chest. Inshallah , he saw nothing, she thought. If he did, she’d say that Sunny had asked her to go to the tailor to check on her new dress. Or maybe that he was fixing a tablecloth. But, no, Ahmet couldn’t have seen much, if anything, with all the rain. She willed herself to calm down. Her stomach tugged at her for a moment, but she waved back and smiled. He was a good boy, her Ahmet, but sometimes she wished she could get him to do something—anything—more than worrying about her, more than his chokidor duties. Like his sister, off in Germany studying at the university. If only she could get Ahmet to loosen up a little, maybe be just a little modern instead of holding on with reddened knuckles to the old ways. Then she would have succeeded as a mother.
    The dress shop was filled with color and light. Dresses of every color hung suspended from the ceiling, while hundreds of others, under plastic covering, lined the walls. Yazmina had never seen so many dresses. Some had mirrors, some beads, some plain, but all beautiful.
    The shopkeeper came over to her and said, “ Salaam alaikum . It’s a bad day to be out. You are wet. But can I help you find a new dress perhaps?”
    “Yes, please,” she said. “I’d like pants with it, too.”
    “So you want the Indian-style shalwaar kameez. ”
    “Yes,” she said, “like in that picture.” She pointed to a brightly colored photograph of a beautiful young Indian woman wearing the gaudy, bright Bollywood style of dress. Even in her remote village, everyone was obsessed with Bollywood movies. Her uncle had a tiny generator, enough to power a small VCR. And Yazmina, Layla, and their neighbors would watch movies they got from traders, who’d gotten them on the Pakistani black market.
    The old man looked at her, from ankle to neck, making her feel very uncomfortable, and then walked to a rack. “Come, young one,” he said. “Here are dresses in your size. They all come with pants. Did you have a color in mind?”
    “Orange,” she said, “like the sun. But I’d like it a size or two bigger than me. It’s for my mother.” She had to lie, for how could she tell him that she needed room to grow?
    “Why the tailor on such a day?” Ahmet asked