"Di! what do people wear to parties exactly?" I call from my room.
"Clothes?" she calls from her spot sprawled on the couches outside.
"Wow, I'm thankful to have someone so beneficial in my life" I say closing the door.
I rummage through my wardrobe to find something suitable to wear.
I look at the pieces I got out on the bed, they can do the job, but I still feel something is off. Tops and pants very formal and the skirts are professional suitable for work as well.
The door opens and Dionne barges in holding a packaging of chocolate and a bag of chips and plops on the bed, "throw me a fashion show" she says through a mouthful of food.
I look at her over my shoulder "Why haven't you got dressed yet?"
"I know what I'll wear"
She looks at the pieces on the bed and narrows her eyes, "Where are the scandalous dresses?" she asks.
"There's no scandalous dresses"
"Then I'll get you!" she says jumping from her spot exiting the room running.
I sit on the bed waiting for her as she comes back, "Ha!" she comes back and puts them all on the bed.
"Dionne, these won't cover my arm"
"That's exactly why they're called scandalous"
"Di, I can't wear stuff like that in front of people"
"Why not?"
"Because they look like lingerie and..." I trail off
"And what?" she asks raising a brow
I sigh and sit down at the end of the bed as she straightens to hear me well.
"I wore a scarf before I came here. I know I took it off, but I can't be that extreme"
She opens her mouth then a squeal comes out, I look at her shocked.
"Fuck, I know them; I love scarfs; they wear it back in Morocco!" She exclaims.
"You're Moroccan?!"
"Yes!" She says in Arabic
"Oh my God, you know Arabic and you didn't tell me" I reply back in Arabic and we're suddenly a happy mess.
"we're not the only ones who know Arabic by the way" she says wiggling her brows
"What do you mean? Who else?"
"Your beloved mentor"
I scoff at her usage of words "Well, I'm not surprised. He looks like he knows a lot of languages"
"No just that, he's from Eastern origin like us, but he never told me from where" she says "He never tells anything"
"I thought you two are close"
"We are in a way" she replies munching on some chips.
"Tell me more"
"He trusts me, but Mughrabi doesn't have close people; he doesn't have friends"
"Why do you always call him Mughrabi, I mean not his first name?
She widens her eyes "oh, no one calls him by his first name; no one is allowed to. We even sometimes forget what is it; his signature reminds us"
"Why so serious" I ask sarcastically
"You're like him though"
"What?"
YOU ARE READING
The Promise
RomanceIt was just a glance at a picture in a job application file that caught his attention. He has set rules to himself and the most important one; is not to fall in love. What could happen between an intern and her mentor in his company in a completely...
