Zainab.
Life couldn't have been any better for Zainab.
She smiled to herself as she sat on the roof terrace of her father's humongous mansion. Feet raised up on an antique mahogany table, finished with a glass top. She could smell the floor varnishes and furniture polishes floating around in the atmosphere.
In this light that paints my skin so warmly, the trees are dancing ladies, each in dresses more fabulous than any designer can craft. They move, choreographed by the wind, in perfect time with one another. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, and I wonder how many hues of green my eyes are witnessing. As they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, drinking in rays as pure as the rain, I stretch my arms up too, fingers spread toward the sun and slowly begin to dance.
