An iStoryby Mary Morrissy Share Facebook Threads Twitter Reddit Forward Print Copy link Madam, she treat me well. Seven-fifty dirhams a month and phone cards on top. Doctor, he devoted. When she poorly, he bring her mint tea in bed. She have headaches and must have her room dark. I hears him crooning to her. I knows what come next. To continue reading please sign in. Join for free Already a reader? Sign In