Chapter 1: The First Glance



THE man looked across the room, at a texture that stood out. It was a floral representation on a dull black color. It was not the nature of the café but the alienating properties of the texture's combination that made it stand out. He liked it- in an odd way, like a stress-releasing ball. He knew he was zoned out and he enjoyed the feeling of letting go. There was an uplifting hue in the way the girl shouted at him. There was a mean satisfaction in how all her attempts to get his attention were a waste. It felt like throwing your prized project into the wastebucket. scrunch scrunch

She was shaking his arm. Harder and harder. There was another distant sound. A waiter, perhaps. An angel, maybe. He drifted back to his senses- at his own slow pace. It felt like she was crying. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The noises in the room grew on him and weighed on his conscious mind. The sound of heavy sobbing, consoling words, mumbled speech and the piercing energy of the strangers. The depressive atmosphere of the café had him choking on his breath. She was pulling harder yet. Hard enough to tear the jacket. She was shaking and hitting him.

He opened his eyes against the depression and saw her smeared out face. The waiter's wasted efforts to calm her made him want to chuckle. He couldn't however. Even he knew how inappropriate that would be. It would be mean. It would be bad. But he did it. He couldn't stop himself. It felt as if he could no longer control his chuckling muscles. It was a bad reflex but he chuckled. Then, he laughed- like a ringing laugh, that rings and increases in volume till it engulfs all emotion.

Her hands dropped from the fabric of his jacket. She wobbled out of her chair and walked lifelessly out of the café- helped by the culprit waiter. Everything was silent but he couldn't contain his laugh. It ringed on and on. Then, it died out. Everybody stared at him for some time- waiting for something else. But he was back to his lifeless state and so they indulged back into their merriness, once more.

He put his hand into his pocket and watched the righteous waiter walk back towards him, in a very defined sense. Among keys and pills, his hands touched a bill. He pulled it out and held it up.

"Change is to keep." It must have been quite a bill because the waiter's spirit and determination readily flailed. The man dragged himself off the seat and tried to understand if the atmosphere around him was really draggy or it was a trick of the pills. He picked up his coat and weighed it on to his right shoulder lazily hooked onto one finger.

He walked in even calculated steps towards the exit, eyes scanning his surroundings- moving like sick limbs. He had only just reached the door, when he stopped- a bit sharp.

The flowers on black. They were veiling his mind. He strolled back to the texture reaching it in minutes. Upon closer inspection, it looked even more alienating and out of place. He stared at it for around ten minutes.

"Hi." He blurted. There was no response.

"Hi." He said, louder and felt the many things pressed inside his chest. Could he scream and tip over the edge of lunacy?

The girl turned around solemnly. She had a very set face, and there was little room for surprise.

'"Yes?"

"What is that?" The slurry undertones in his speech were slightly dimmed. He didn't wish for them to vanish. He raised his left hand and pointed it, rather neatly at the flowers.

"That is some flowers."

"Why?" It was such an innocent question yet he felt an alternate glee.

"It is my way of adding colors" The girl had now turned back to her cold cup of tea.

"It doesn't fit. I don't think it fits in at all."

"Does it have to.....in your head? Because it does fit in mine and that is satisfying enough for me." She raised her cup to her lips and took a silent, small but lengthened sip. He could bet that tea was cold and that somewhat irked him.

"It stands out, in a weird way. It is unsatisfying." He explained and wished she would turn.

"So do I, for that matter."

He pondered on her response, for two long minutes. Those were two of the longest minutes he had experienced in his life and he wished to be rid of that length.

"You are right. Your shirt is also baggy." He laughed weakly.

" It is not a shirt." She paused and took another sip of the cold tea and he felt an itch on his chest. " It is an abbaya."

He was dumbfounded. He didn't know what that was. But he didn't wish for her to find out in the least that he had entered this state of dumbfoundedness.

" Why are you talking to me?" He said loudly, and the merriness halted once again. An uneasy silence for the café and satisfaction for him.

"Because you are talking to me." It irked him tremendously now, how she was calm and how she didn't care to look at him as he carried the conversation. It was so stupid. It was maddening. Before he could bake his response, the previous angelic power gently tugged at his arm and led him out of the café.

He kept staring at the flowers on her black abbaya, the color filled representation a weird mix with the dulled out black. She took another sip of that cold tea and he wanted to snatch the cup out of her hands. The people were staring at him. A thought crossed his mind- Maybe if I will roar, they will clap. The waiter was pulling at his arm as hard as he could, without making it impolite. That twat.

However, he didn't roar. His whole body was fixated on the flowers. He felt numb. And then as the door clinked open, she turned around, her eyes looking right at him. For a moment, he felt it was so improper. And then, a thrilling realization dawned on him. The eyes were the same color as the abbaya. A floral black.


THE cold air of the street hit him and he shivered slightly. The waiter was saying something to him but he couldn't bring himself to pay attention. The waiter wouldn't stop though. He just kept going on and on, despite the blank glance that greeted him.

"I don't know..."

"Should I call you a cab, sir?" The waiter was shaking his shoulder now. "Sir?"

" I like the way you shake my shoulders," was the muffled reply, " It has a soothing touch to it."

"Sir?"

"Huh?"

"The cab?"

The man composed himself, drew as sharp a breath as he could and looked at the poised man in uniform, who stood in front of him- a messiah in a tux.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked, in a matter of fact tone.

"No, sir."

"Okay. Your tie sucks so fucking much. Good night."

Not expecting a reply, the man trailed off. He had left his car close by and he wished to find it before the cold engulfed him in a less romantic way. The café was not in the most vibrant part of town and it was too late to find his way, in the proper style of way finding- however that is.

Circling around the sacred café for the second time, he realized that he was really not seeing straight and some part of him was now deciding to actually call the waiter but his mighty pride was far above his meager needs. He dialed a number on his phone instead and waited for some life on the other hand. The buzz soothed his forehead and he felt like sleeping on the phone.

"Ahmed? Hey Ahmed? Where are you? Are you okay? I just heard man.. That is devastating.. You doing alright."

"I am outside the café and I can't find my car. It is very cold."

"What? Ahmed, you okay? Where are you, dude?"

"Just get over to the café. Fast."

"I am coming. Stay there. I will be over in 5 mins."

He always found it surprising to see that people cared. He found the nag of caring highly unsatisfactory.

He sat down beside the café's gates and took out a slightly crushed cigarette out of his pockets. As he rolled the tobacco in between his fingers, he looked down at the snow. Uneven, crushed and disturbed.

A few more minutes passed before he felt the door open and heard someone step out. He didn't have to turn to know it was the girl with the abbaya. He could feel it in his bones. She didn't turn around to look at him but slowly made her way towards the road, light steps and every shudder braved.

"I am sorry." He bit his tongue. He could almost bite it off. He didn't know why he said it but he had. He had blurted out the most unreasonable sentence that he possibly could. He drew in a sharp breath and prayed that she hadn't heard him but it was too late. There was a sharp turn and suddenly for the second time that night- they were eye to eye.

"I don't know why I said that. It just popped out of my mouth. I am sorry." He felt the cringe at his last statement again. He wanted to grab a pair of pliers, rip out his tongue, bury it in the snow and stomp on the grave for extra measure. He couldn't believe he had apologized twice, in the past two minutes. It felt like the stupidest thing in the world to say an apology.

She looked him through with her beady eyes and he stared back bravely, however uneasy it felt.

"It is okay, really. Don't worry about it. It happens." she whispered, her soothing voice mingled strangely with the cold wind. Then she walked away.

He sat there, dumbfounded, for the second time that night. The girl hurdled through the snow, in front of him. He could feel even through the abbaya that she had pencil thin legs. He wondered how far they would possibly take her and where she would break down and stop. His train of thoughts broke as he came eye to eye with the flowers once more, dimly illuminated by the café sign.

He noticed how the vibrant mixture of the thread flowers was horribly stitched onto the dark abbaya. There were no other designs- only a few other patches and mends that came into sight.

What a horrible attire to have, he wondered but at the same time, he could breathe so freely at the flowers. It would be the most imperfectly perfect sight for the common witness- the lost man finding himself lost in threaded flowers. That is until they were out of sight and his breath became uneven once more and he was abandoned- a jumbled man in his own chain of worlds.