The alarm sang its sing song notes and Nasima reached a hand out to hit the snooze button. A force of habit. The alarm was from her phone and of course there was no snooze button to hit. There would have been a snooze button to hit if Sean were still there. But Sean had left and had taken the damn bedside clock with him. Good riddance, Nasima thought. The clock, she told herself, not Sean.
Two weeks in and she was still getting used to not waking up next to him. Not slapping his hand away from caressing her breasts. Not fussing over his unironed clothes. Not making tea and eggs for the both of them… He had taken their favorite tea cups with him. Her tea cups. For the love of a cuppa, she was the one who had introduced him to tea to begin with. Had he even heard of masala chai before he had watched her, in bemusement, add spices to a boiling pot of water?
I met my girlfriend Liya at a charity event. She was a performer in a short play on empowering underprivileged kids. I thought it was admirable that she was part of such a topical play in such a consequential event. That’s exactly what I told her. Not in such lyrical words but something more along the lines of what you did up there was really cool.
That admiration was clearly an aberration, likely because I believed it was an amateur performance. If I am to be honest I have never really appreciated any of the plays that I have seen her in over the past year. I wonder if that is my shortcoming. I want to love what she does as much as I claim I do. I am wracked with guilt as I take my seat tonight in the makeshift theater (basement). The troupe makes its way to the stage. Chi, Jed, someone, someone. It seems like they all have three or four letter names. It seems like they all barely have one whole foot planted in reality.
Their performance tonight is called the tug of war. Chi, Jed and Liya are locked in a three way embrace throughout the act. They enact performing daily chores such as washing dishes, while keeping the embrace. They want to show that they can perform these tasks only if they are coordinated. I hope no one is watching me cringe at their attempts. After the show, while others are heaping praise on them, the only thing I ask Liya is if she would like to come home or disinfect herself first. When Chi (or is it Jed?) gives me a nasty look I say I mean because of all the smoke in the room.
As the night wore on and the scotch ran low the opinions got stronger and the arguments got louder and generally more interesting than the game of poker we were playing. At some point my dad brought up the inevitability of death as was his wont to do in his old age and I, inevitably, wearing my cynic hat and atheist shades, declared there’s nothing after death except the sadness you leave behind for the ones who love you. My dad told me there’s still time for me to correct my ways and said that he’d make sure to send me a sign from heaven in his afterlife. I joked that the sign better not be on a slice of toast because I would totally eat it before noticing anything.
When he did pass away he did so peacefully, in his sleep. Whenever I reminisce his last days I think about the fig tree in our backyard that he nurtured from near death. Squirrels had run rampant that year and had nearly uprooted the newly planted sapling. I would have most likely given up on the sorry mess in the garden but my dad replanted it, built a cage around it and brought it back to life. That story served as a parable he used to teach his grandkids never to give up on anything.
My dad had his own brush with death two decades back, when his car rolled into a ditch on a particularly stormy day. A splintered piece of glass nearly tore into an artery. The doctor said he was lucky to survive. My dad thanked God and decided there was a purpose to his life. The only thanks I had were for the hospital staff that labored to save my dad’s life. I wanted to tell my dad that I didn’t see any luck in the car rolling in the ditch. But I held my tongue. I was pretty sure he’d say God works in mysterious ways.
I like to think my dad saw death in the eye and made a deal to be a better person if he lived. That incident converted my dad into an eternal optimist and turned him from an irritable person to a patient one. He seemed to have discovered a superpower to enjoy not only his own life but to bring joy to people around him.
I sit under the fig tree and marvel at the bountiful fig harvest this year. Is this a sign from heaven? I don’t think so but I sure want to believe so.
Prof was calmly counting his earnings at the end of the day while I was sweating bullets. It was the look he gave me while twirling a knife. It was the way he asked me if I wanted to learn something. Did he know?
Professor Enigma or Prof as we called him was not one of the top billings, not by a long shot. That would have probably been Spindra, the spider girl or Ken and Len, the conjoined juggling twins or the Real Houdini, the escape artist. But for me Prof was the star.
The first time I saw him in action he was manning one of the game booths. Knock over all of the three bowling pins to win some prize, a teddy bear or some such. The first person barely hit the pins with his throw but somehow all pins tumbled down. That was enough to get a crowd. Then even the best of throws would just not be able to knock the pins down. Until the crowd started losing interest. And then, boom, another winner.
Same with the shell game or three card monte. To the mark it would appear so easy to win at these games. Till he actually played it. Then it would be virtually impossible to win. Unless Prof let you win.
The bathroom light dances on the edge of the blade. The first cut is the toughest. I wonder what my sister would have said if she knew. ‘Don’t do this. I forgive you’?
I was a little girl of 6 when I played a prank on my sister of 8 by hiding a spider on her bedsheet. I thought she’d scream, I would have a laugh and that would be that. Little did I know that what I had sprung on her was a Brown Recluse that would end up biting my sister’s leg. The leg would get infected and later amputated.
I never told my sister how that spider had ended up on her bed. I never told her that I had destroyed the rest of her life. And consequently mine.
All these years of self loathing what I wanted to do was tell my sister the truth. Tell her I was sorry. And then kill myself. That last part? Easy. The first part, though, I didn’t have the guts to do that. Continue reading
You claimed and still do
Your words were benign
I obviously disagreed
Even a tiny pebble
Cracks the windshield
When hurled at a high speed
Sifting through memories
Reminds me of the time
I didn’t want my picture taken
You laughed and asked
Who’d want to see my face
You were capturing my soul
Ten years had gone by
She said I still looked the same
I thanked her for the compliment
And later wondered, was it one?
One might be inclined
To romanticize otherwise
But unlike a fairy tale
There are far more
Than one Cinderella
Who fit in those glass slippers
I was very agitated when I misplaced one of my gym towels. To put things into perspective, B_, my off and on gym partner, told me he was in ‘real’ mourning because his new fling had come to an abrupt end. He told me to shut up about losing a miserable towel. Even a plush one. He had broken up with the ‘sunlight in his life.’ B_ asked me why she had to leave him. I wanted to say because of his terrible use of metaphors but I didn’t think B_ was looking for an answer, especially that one. So I kept quiet and let him whine. The one positive from his sob story was that he was more focused on his workout. It was like he was on steroids. Maybe he was on steroids. I never asked.
He’s on her, thrusting and panting. She is not an expert at this but she wants to make him happy. She wants to make sounds and say dirty things like she has seen the girls in the x-rated videos do. She wants to tell him to fuck her like she’s the last woman in earth. She wants to tell him to tug her hair and call her a whore. She wants to tell him to use her like his sex toy, rough and hard. She wants to tell him to ravish her like an animal while they do the doggy, the snail and the butterfly. She wants to tell him not to stop till her knuckles are white from clutching the sheets. She wants to tell him not to stop till her words are a jumble of vowels. Ooh, baby. That’s all she manages.
The hats lay piled up in a corner in the closet. The stylish newsboy. The gentleman’s panama. A baseball cap for swinging at the bottom of the ninth. A whoopee cap for the court jester. Even a toque for when he experimented with peppers and spices.
Now they just lay there. Not entirely forgotten. But no more than a bookmark from the past. At most he would give them an occasional, longing look but would then turn away. Did they not fit him right any more? Or if they did then did they not look right on him?