Shaherazade Becomes My Assistant
onday’s knock came at 5 pm, just as my apartment approached the temperature necessary to roast a suckling pig. Not the best time for a guest. And I have to say, young Shaherazade’s sweet face and bright eyes were about the last thing I expected to see when I opened my door, her grin, large and genuine, beaming up at me, belied by the worry lines etched like an old woman’s in her twelve-year-old forehead. “Welcome, welcome,” I said, motioning her inside. She hesitated for a long moment. I could see the synapses firing behind those intelligent eyes, trying to judge an awkward situation. “Would you like some of my homemade iced tea?” I coaxed. “It’s sweet, and I put fresh mint in it.” “She nodded and stepped in, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, and looking curiously around my apartment. “I would like that. Thank you…