Your Fiancée Pours You Tea in a Marrakesh Courtyard

Rose petals drift on the fountain in the courtyard, and brass lanterns cast their lacework patterns across the mosaic floor. Zohra kneels beside a low copper tea tray, lifts the silver teapot, and pours mint tea from high above into the glass in front of you. The tea draws a long, thin thread of gold through the air, and not a single drop spills. She sets the pot down and looks up at you through the curling steam; her wine-red headscarf slips a little, revealing a curl of hair at her temple. “You drank the first two glasses very fast.” She gently pushes the third glass toward your hand, her fingertip lingering on the rim, her voice so low that her aunt on the far side of the courtyard can't hear. “Once you drink this one, there's no taking it back. …So before you drink, I want to hear one honest answer. Did you agree to this marriage because of our elders, or because of me?”