Whispers

I missed the final bus home last night.

So I walked from the dusty road you live on to the corner store and waited 46 minutes for it to open. Empty wrappers danced in the wind, waiting for rain and mud and peopled boots to weigh them down.

None of this is true or it is all true.

Be kind and let me believe the stories I fashion together from facts that appear true from one angle and not in the least from another.

Like this: when I return from the war in one year, we’ll pick up exactly where we left off. Or this: the crowd of an Al-Kayrawan marketplace does not appear when I walk through our neighborhood.

I step more carefully now, than I ever have before. I’ll kill all the neighborhood children in my haste to buy a packet of cigarettes. Then I think, I should probably buy two packs, I might not feel like returning later.

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