Happy Birthday

“Get me a chocolate ice cream—the one called Cornetto.”

Zina appeared to be taking orders for the usual afternoon supermarket run, but as she passed my desk, she winked and whispered, “We're going to get a cake!”

“For Mais?” I asked, feeling proud of myself for being less clueless than usual. Earlier that morning, I had understood enough of a conversation to guess that tomorrow was Mais's birthday.

I asked if I could come along, and after a bit more time spent pretending we were going to the supermarket, four of us piled into a car and headed to the bakery. 
“We want lots of chocolate,” Zina told me. 
Walking into the bakery, I was hit by a wave of buttery sweetness. Glass cases were filled with flower-shaped cookies, small pastries, and frosted cakes. We asked what was inside of each cake, an then left. “Not enough chocolate.”

We drove to another bakery with more glass cases full of sweets. One of the guys greeted the owner, who appeared to be an old friend. This bakery also had shelves of cheap toys. Some were clearly cake decorations—brides, graduation caps, babies—and some were just odd, like a wind-up airplane. We left with two flare candles and an M, as well as a cake that apparently contained an acceptable amount of chocolate.

When we got back to the office, we sent one person upstairs to lure Mais into an office. When the coast was clear, we rushed upstairs and set up the table with the cake and gifts before calling Mais into the room. We lit the candles and quickly called Mais, singing “Happy Birthday” in English and Arabic.