Phillippa turned her head, but the smell already alerted her to what he was referring to. The barman was sharing a joint with a couple of Moroccan men... one quite old in a djalaba, who were standing at the bar. Phillippa smiled. She dug into her pocket, and pulled out a sachet and a packet of king-size Rizlas. ‘At least we don’t have to go back to our room,’ she said with a smile. As she busied herself in assembling the joint, she noticed the young woman watching her fingers as she crumbled some. Me: No masi, nothing like that.Masi: Then call me once a week.Me: Ok.Masi: And why don’t you come to my house?Me: Ok, I will come, masi.Masi: Come in the afternoon.Me: Ok. But why afternoon?Masi: At that time, I remain alone at the house. My husband used to be in the office at that time, and the children would be in school. So I can make good food of your choice.Me: Ok, masi.After this conversation, I was thinking why she said like this. Did she have a bad intention for me? After that, I. More

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