Desert toes

Photo by Elvis Payne
In Cairo, there’s an overcrowded area called Khan el Khalil. There I was, wet, smelly and limping on what may have been a broken toe.
My high school was big on SATs. There were posters and flyers, lectures and awareness campaigns, and even free biscuits at one point. Classrooms were converted into think-tanks, hallways into math galleries, and teachers pushed vocabulary flash cards on us like crack dealers in a loft party.
I hated the damn cards. Some words were so obscure that you’d only ever see them in the SATs, and others so nauseously simple that they were a waste of ink, cardboard and Euclidean space.
‘I mean, seriously, overcrowded? And you have the audacity to flash me with that, Karl?’
‘See, it’s working already. I flashed you audacity just a few slides ago.’
I was kind of hoping she’d flash me. In a classroom of underdeveloped women this study-buddy had enough curves to make my head spin, amongst other things, and I – being the penultimate example of suave – had offered to help with her SAT preps in hopes of, umm, biscuits I guess.