Then the deep, soft voice of my Uncle Hossain filled my ears: “Azizam, movazeb baash kasi nayad too. My love, don’t let anyone in.”
Marco was waiting for me outside Jivamukti Yoga Studios, leaning against a white Ferrari. He held the door open for me and I got in.
“Okay, yoga girl,” he said. “What do you feel like eating?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Let’s just drive.”
This was our first date. Spring 1998. We drove to the South Street Seaport. We walked around talking about our moms and looked at the bridges that span two boroughs. “BMW,” he said. “Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg. That’s how you remember the order, from south to north. BMW.”
And then, out of the blue, he asked, “So, do you ever do drugs?”
“Like what?” I asked. I felt very uncool all of a sudden.
“You tell me,” he said.
I wanted him to think I was a badass. “I’m up for anything,” I lied.
Marco stared at me, as though possessed by a demon. “You’re serious?” he ask…