18:25
Salma typed away on her laptop with the speed special to people with nine years of experience in writing soulless reports and hair-pulling emails. She glanced at her equally old office clock and sighed.
Perhaps her speed was the reason the clock was so slow. It was too early to go home, with no one waiting for her at her doorstep; her husband, she presumed, was already lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone while eating a taco he had picked up on his way home. She grabbed her phone, ignoring the twenty texts from four different people, and stared at the missed call from her husband, followed by a “I brought a chicken salad for you from Cosa Mia” text.
This time, she remarked, there was no “When are you coming home?” text.
She cringed, yesterday’s argument still fresh in her memory. She made a mental note to apologise to him before they went to bed. She often had to remind herself that they shared the same pain, even if his way of showing it was unconventional.
She was about to go back to finishing next week’s monthly policy update report when her manager knocked twice on her office’s glass door and immediately opened it, a courtesy to announce his entrance, much to her growing irritation.
He hesitated for exactly four seconds before asking in the most condescending tone he could get away with, “You don’t wanna go home just yet?”
Her eyes darted back to her screen, and with the most passive-aggressiveness she could fit in her lazy voice, she said, “I haven’t finished the MPUR yet.”
He chuckled. “We definitely don’t need it for another two weeks,” he said, emphasising the “two weeks”.
He walked closer and put his hand flat on her desk, resting his weight on it. He stared at her, waiting for an answer, but Salma’s silence pressed him to continue. “Go home, Salma.”
She heard him breathe in to add something else, but thankfully, he decided against it.
Two hours of uninterrupted silence numbed her tongue, so instead of protesting, she quietly shut her laptop and dragged her things back to her backpack while he followed her with his eyes. Before she finished packing under the scrutiny of her boss, the soft vibration of her phone filled the silence of the room.
When she grabbed her phone, the latter read “ Y <3 ”, the toothy smile in his profile picture light years away from her.
Despite everything, she found herself smiling softly at the screen.
Guess he hadn’t learned better than to call a second time.
_________________________________________________________
19:47
The glaring numbers on his screen mocked him.
Yassine put his phone down and held his breath for a few moments before sighing defeatedly. He slumped on the sofa, the leather creaking under him. His right hand absently stroked back and forth the old scratches in the seat. Perhaps it was time to change the furniture, he thought bitterly as he closed his eyes in a tentative attempt to sleep, for lack of anything better to do.
But long before he could entertain the possibility of a nap, the door swung open. He twisted his head uncomfortably to peer at the newcomer, not that there were many of those anyway.
He fell back on the couch after a quick peek.
“Hey,” he said nonchalantly.
“Hi,” Salma managed between her panting and the rustling of plastic bags.
This caught Yassine’s attention. He sat up on the couch to look at her directly.
She probably misread his quizzical expression when she said, “ I know, I know. I was surprised too when I found myself breathless after going up these stairs.”
She put down the grocery bags on the floor, removed her shoes, and placed them neatly in the cabinet.
“I…” He hesitated, “I already brought groceries on my way from the office.” It wasn’t a declaration but rather a question as to why she decided to bring them too.
“Oh,” She blinked. “I didn’t know.”
“ I texted you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t see it.” She rubbed half of her face with her hand. “ I only saw your last text about the salad.”
His lips formed a thin line. He returned to his initial lying position on the couch. “ Yeah, it’s in the fridge if you want it.”
He picked up his phone again as she made her way to the kitchen to organise the double groceries and pick up her dinner. “You could have texted me to help you with the groceries in the parking lot,” he added from the living room.
Through the faint noise of plastic bags crackling and the dishes clinking, he could hear her mumble something about two light bags and a dying phone, but the justification gradually drowned amongst the sound of water running from the tap and the utensils dancing in the creaking drawers.
When she was back in the living room, he bent his knees closer to himself as an invitation for her to sit next to him, an offer which she silently accepted when she sat at the newly available seat on the sofa.
He scrolled on his phone while she munched slowly on her food. Either she was trying not to hurt the chicken strips in her mouth, or staring intently at the two-day-old mug stain on the coffee table was a more mentally taxing activity than chewing.
“So, how was work today?” he asked, in a hopefully cheerful tone.
A silent moment later, he added, “The update wasn’t too much of a hassle, I hope.”
She continued to chew in the same manner, so he parted his legs to get a full view of her face. That made her turn her head and chuckle.
“You should look at yourself from up here,” she said.
“I look inviting, don’t I?” he replied bemusedly.
“Definitely,” she said non-committedly.
They were back to their initial silence.
Her eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room when something on the rug caught her eye. She reached down for it with a soft grunt.
The object in her hand was the awkwardly bright blue goose plushie, the neck leaning uncomfortably to the side as if trying to escape Salma’s unreadable gaze. The toy fixed Yassine with a creepy stare, its beak pulled into a mocking smile. He clenched his jaw and glanced at his wife’s unmovable expression. He stood up and gently pulled the familiar toy away from her hands.
“I’m gonna put it away with the other toys in the box,” he said, cringing when he felt the toy’s stickiness.. “ I didn’t see it lying around.”
“He used to love this duck,” she said simply.
“It’s a goose.”
She smiled fondly, remembering their constant bickering about the scientifically accurate classification of stuffed animals.
“It certainly didn’t matter to Soulayman if it was a goose or a duck.”
The hairs on Yassine’s back stood on end at the mention of that name. He pursed his lips and glanced at the mocking goose, then at his wife’s hazy expression. He sighed.
“ Salma, I don’t like it when you…” He hesitated.
“Mention Soulayman’s name?” she finished for him, a little too sharply for both their tastes. Her brows slightly furrowed, and her shoulders tense.
“Why?” she added, rigidly prepared for an answer neither of them liked.
He wasn't keen on the idea of refuelling yesterday’s incident, but avoiding the topic wasn’t a wise decision either.
“Because-”
Before he could continue, a soft whistle erupted from the kitchen; Salma had apparently put water to boil for her evening tea.
“I’ll get it,” she said abruptly. She stood up, the crease between her brows suddenly gone, but not the stiffness of her shoulders.
With a relieved sigh, Yassine dragged his feet towards their office, thankful to the tea kettle for the interruption.
The door clicked softly behind him.
He leaned against it, staring intently at the big cardboard box in the middle of the room, as if bracing himself for a combat against it. The box in itself was unassuming; an old delivery box that found a new use, the word “shelter” written in big bold letters on the side.
Yassine slowly walked towards it, the blue goose’s neck bobbing up and down in his hand. For a few moments, he hovered over the box, looking at the goose, then at the box, then at the goose again. Then, as if an invisible force had knocked him down, he abruptly sat down on the floor with a thud, ignoring the sting in his behind. Cross-legged, he was now at eye level with the box.
The office was completely silent, save for his breathing and a distant noise of clinking mugs and spoons. He had volunteered to put away all of Soulayman’s old belongings, but it didn’t mean that it was easier for him to look at a box that stored more memories than toys. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and braced himself to open the box. He didn’t even have to contemplate the objects inside. Step one: Open the box. Step two: put the goose on top of the other things, and step three: close the box. Easy! He thought to himself.
So open the box he did.
However, executing step two proved difficult amid the swarm of bright colors —and bright memories— that flooded his vision. One would think that after a week of gathering the scattered items in boxes, he would become numb to the task, but its taste only soured more. With a grimace, he gently put the goose toy on top of a pile of neatly folded small shirts.
He shuddered at the sight of the orange and green striped shirt at the top of the pile. The day Soulayman wore it, he told his wife that he looked ridiculous in that shirt, but she had brushed off his comment, joking about how he has no fashion sense while waving her hand at Soulayman to look at the camera. He was running and bouncing in the park, his big brown eyes shining with joy under that day’s bright sunlight. His wife’s smile was just as bright —if not more. Her face glowed as she followed Soulayman’s quests around the park trees; he enjoyed scaring a squirrel into its nest or running toward strangers on benches. He used to replace everybody’s quiet with laughter.
They were comfortably settled in a peaceful domestic life, their biggest worries being an impending deadline or a broken car—nothing that a mass of golden hair couldn’t fix.
Only now they were left to hug themselves against the bleak cold of their home —if he could still call it a home.
He blinked, and a single tear fell down his cheek. His vision was blurry, blue and yellow and green dancing in front of him.
He shook his head.
No.
He blinked. Two tears faithfully followed each other down to his chin. His vision cleared. The dancing colors settled back onto the shirt.
They both knew that it was still their home.
He frantically closed the box, stood up straight, and turned to the door. Then he saw the stroller, propped up behind the door. He always had a hard time folding and unfolding it, especially when he grumbled that it was useless when Soulayman always preferred to walk, but Salma always insisted they take it with them on long walks, and it was enough reason for Yassine to comply.
He blinked. One lonely tear barely made it past his cheekbone before he wiped it with the back of his hand. His vision refocused on the doorknob as he pushed the door open and left the office.
The click of the door closing behind him reverberated in the silent office, through the creamy and slightly chipped walls, through the closed windows hidden behind forest green curtains with a white paws pattern, through the two eerily neat maple writing desks standing side by side, through the plain box full of the colorful items, through the stroller that promptly leaned against the door, as if eavesdropping on the distant whispers in the rest of the house.
_________________________________________________________
22:09
After setting the next day’s alarm, Salma put her phone face down on her dark oak nightstand. It was uncharacteristically empty without the heart-shaped picture frame propped up on it. She had put it away inside a drawer until she found another photo with the right dimensions, or until the old one didn’t instantly reduce her to tears. That same frame was the reason behind her argument with Yassine the day before. He had snapped and said that throwing away everything that reminded her of Soulayman wouldn’t help her move on in any way. However, she asked herself as she let her head sink into her pillow, was she supposed to subject herself to the same pain and burns over and over again whenever an object prods the memories of what she couldn’t keep? Healing takes time, yes, but patience was never one of her virtues; accountability was, though.
She shifted on the bed to face her husband. He was drowsily watching a video essay about the UK general election, if the few muffled words coming from his phone were any indication. His eyes took turns shutting and reopening themselves, the hollows under them accentuated by the dim lamp light and the sickly glow of his screen. Even his cheeks seemed hollower, the growing stubble giving him an aged look despite being only thirty-one. Was it just the effect of the poor lighting?
“Since when are you interested in international politics?” Salma asked with a tired smile.
Her voice pulled him from his half-sleeping state. He blinked drowsily as he took a second to understand where her question stemmed from before answering.
“Oh, it just popped up in my feed, and I was curious.”
She hummed in understanding. The man in the video was still talking in the intellectually calm voice usual to these videos.
She rubbed her face with her hand. No need to dance around the topic.
“ I’m sorry about yesterday,” she blurted.
Yassine quickly looked at her, then back at his phone, “It’s fine, real-”
“It’s not,” she interjected, kicking the blanket away from her legs. It was hot enough anyway.
He paused the video.
He stared at her without saying anything, so she continued, “It’s not fair for you… I still think that we shouldn’t handle things the way you are, poetically venerating his… his things like we’re in a shrine,but-but that doesn’t mean you’re my punching bag.”
The words almost physically hurt to admit, and his unnerving silence wasn’t soothing the pain.
Finally, he sighed, “ I know you didn’t mean what you said,” he whispered, “ You’re just hurting.”
“We’re both hurting,” she shot back, her voice cracking at the last syllable.
“It doesn't mean we’re allowed to…hurt each other more,” She added, almost pleadingly.
Yassine’s eyes searched her face, although she didn’t know for what.
“I’m really sorry,” she said as she felt a familiar sting in her eyes. No, she will not cry; she was apologizing, not looking to be comforted again.
She bit her lip before saying, “ I just… don't want us to change.”
Yassine smiled tenderly, although his eyebrows were slightly brought together. He draped the blanket back over her legs, sliding closer to her.
“ It’s fi-uh, I mean, I forgive you… Well, not entirely.” Her eyes lowered. ”I’m tired of walking on eggshells when I’m with you, you know?”
She did know, though it pained her to hear him say it.
“ I’m sorry caring about my feelings is like walking on eggshells to you.” She snapped, against her better judgment.
He pursed his lips. “ We’re back to square zero, Salma.”
When she opened her mouth to retort, his gaze hardened as he shot, “You said it! We’re both hurting. You can’t expect me to be okay with shutting away everything to do with Soulayman and somehow be comfortable with your random bursts of nostalgia. Talk about double standards.” He flailed his arms around, agitated.
Unable to be defensive, she murmured, “I just miss him.”
“I miss him too. You know that, but you tend to forget it,” He said tightly.
“Because you live your life like nothing happened, like he was never here! Like he’s still here! But when I mention that he-”
“I don't need you to remind me we lost our child.”
The bedroom fell quiet. The weight of Yassine’s words grew heavier with every second they spent staring at each other. His gaze was unwavering, but leaking with an emotion other than brooding anger. It was graver, grimmer, and quieter.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, unable to hold eye contact any longer.
His gaze persisted. She slowly put her hand on top of his. He didn’t pull it away.
“We…” he started solemnly, “We have each other. That won’t change.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. His lips were pulled in a smile so feeble it didn’t reach his glistening eyes. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He sniffed. “But many things changed and-” he choked, his voice wavering, and pursed his lips. “We have to adjust.”
They were holding hands now. Salma scooted closer until she could feel the warmth radiating from his chest. He rested his chin on the crown of her head. She fiddled with a loose thread in his sweater.
She closed her eyes, and for an unfortunately brief moment, she heard Soulayman’s steps in the hallway, light and giddy, even in the middle of the night. They were never able to impose a strict sleeping schedule on him. She expected their child to burst into their bedroom and squeeze himself between them in bed.
Suddenly, Yassine sniffed, and the echo of the soft steps in the hallway disappeared. For a fortunately brief moment, she irritably blamed him for scaring them away, before the newly familiar burn in her chest ached. It ached until she felt hot tears slide across her nose and meet with her other eye’s tears before all falling on the pillow.
“ I just,” she choked out, “ I don't wanna feel pain when I remember him anymore. I’m sick of it.”
Admitting it out loud only made her cry harder, stomach quivering, chest heaving, and sobs muffled by Yassine’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close as physically possible.
With his forehead lying on top of her head, she felt the hair there dampen. Short hiccups punctuated her sobs periodically. His hold on her tightened.
“I know,” his voice was broken, “Me too.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist protectively. They held each other, locking arms and legs and hearts— their heartbeats finally synchronized.
During their weeping entangle, time stopped reverently for them, afraid it’d disturb the tranquil melody of their whimpers and sobs. It stopped curiously to witness in awe the moment every obscured face, every misty gaze, every strangled voice, every cold hand, every minute spent in quiet offices, every scattered shard of their hearts finally clicked into place.
They laid in bed, crying and embracing each other until all that could be heard were quiet sniffs. Time extended itself to wipe away the tears in the corners of their eyes before deciding against it. It sighed, cast them one last trusting smile, and departed hurriedly for its voyage.
They both shivered; the window was open. The curtains danced languidly to their silent music, the little scratches at the bottom floating in and out of sight.
Yassine brought their foreheads together and whispered, “ It takes time.”
Salma brought her hand to his flushed cheek and wiped the last tear in the corner of his eye. She stroked his face with her thumb, tracing the hollow of his eyes, his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his nose, his Cupid’s bow, and his lips, until he couldn’t resist closing his eyes. She cupped his face, closed her eyes, and whispered back,
“It takes time.”
_________________________________________________________
11:31
Yassine puffed his cheeks, absently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The car’s dashboard indicated 25°C next to the time, slightly hotter than the usual October weather. Yet the closer they got to their destination, the icier the cold in his chest grew. Even if he knew the weather had nothing to do with it, he still wished he were comfortably wrapped up in his bed, but he’d already been procrastinating this drive for a week, despite his wife’s protests. The woman in question sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window at the running lampposts and withering trees, clutching the small box in her lap lest it fall and break the fragile items inside. Only at a red light did Yassine allow himself to fully divert his attention to his right, albeit without drawing his wife’s attention from her careful observation of a bird’s dried excrement on the top corner of the window. Her head was propped up by her palm, her elbow resting on the door armrest. A few strands of hair escaped her low ponytail, framing her face graciously. The sunlight gave her a healthy air, thankfully far from her sullen look the previous week; nevertheless, her eyes were still dull, missing —temporarily, he reminded himself— the playful glint they always had. Said eyes were looking at him now, a small smile dancing below them. Yassine, out of habit rather than embarrassment, jerked his eyes back on the road in front of him, earning him a sweet chuckle from Salma. She cleared her throat.
“You wanna grab something to eat afterwards?” She asked.
“You know what my answer always is,” he said lightheartedly.
“Yeah,” she smiled, “I just thought, I don’t know, maybe you’d want to go home after we’re done with the shelter.”
“To be honest, I want to go home now, but…” he shrugged, “ when the worst is done, it’ll be nice to enjoy a little treat. What do you have in mind?”
She hummed in thoughtful consideration and turned her head to stare out of the window again.
“ Maybe… Green!” she exclaimed.
“Never heard of it. Did we go there befo-”
“Go! The light’s green,” she interjected, gesturing to the green light to their right.
“Oh,” He pressed the pedal just as the car behind them honked impatiently. Salma rolled down the window and raised an apologetic hand to the driver who lost seven seconds of their time.
They arrived at the shelter before reaching an agreement about where to eat.
The establishment was what you would expect from a modestly funded and apathetically maintained charity. It had little changed since Yassine last visited it some years back. A small pang of guilt pulled at his chest at the thought, but it was quickly dismissed with reason: He still gave back to his community, but in different ways than during his university days.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when he saw Salma push the door open. He hurried behind her, glad that she was acting as his metaphorical shield at that moment, as ridiculous as it sounded. He joined her at the reception desk, his hands deep in his pockets while hers were fidgeting on the desk. A young man’s head peered from a back door, curiously looking at them. The head was swiftly withdrawn, then a moment later, it reappeared, this time accompanied by the rest of the body.
“Hello!” he smiled at them professionally, a small dimple showing in his left cheek. “Welcome to Marlis shelter. How can I help you?”
“Hey,” said Yassine, and after finally remembering to smile back, he added, “I’m Yassine. I think you’re new here. Is Maryem here?”
The boy pulled a loose strand of ridiculously shiny raven hair away from his face. “No, she doesn’t work on Saturdays. There’s only me right now,” he chuckled, blue eyes darting nervously between the pair.
She still works here, Yassine thought, so nothing has changed after all. Maybe he can ask for Houda. Nervous teenagers are his least favorite type of teenagers, after his niece, of course.
“Thank you! ” Salma said cheerfully to the receptionist before Yassine could open his mouth again. “We’re old friends with the manager here, Madame Soubanne. We have a few things we would like to donate. It’d be nice if we could talk to her a little, Badr,” she added, reading the name tag pinned to his chest.
“ Of course!” the teenager smiled wider. “I’ll see if she didn’t leave her office yet for her lunch break. I’m sure she’d love to see an old acquaintance.”
Once the teenager and his obnoxiously glamorous hair disappeared behind the back door, Salma turned to her husband, glaring at him, though he didn’t know why. He just hoped it had nothing to do with his slowly receding hairline or how the boy called him old.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“Don’t intimidate the poor boy,” she said.
“I didn’t do anything to him,” He shrugged.
“ You were all frowning at him and acting all ‘I’m buddies with your boss’” she said, deepening her voice in a mock imitation of his.
“ I just prefer talking to someone I trust more,”
“But the boy didn’t deserve that attitude from you.”
Yassine rolled his eyes and muttered, “ I didn’t have an attitude.”
The young receptionist reappeared, this time accompanied by a familiar face.
Madame Soubanne was a middle-aged woman and had been one for as long as Yassine remembered. Like the shelter she managed, hardly anything about her was altered. Stout but healthy, she carried herself with the tranquility of someone whom destiny had blessed with a lifestyle they love. Slightly disheveled frail hair framed her poetically faded face. Turquoise earrings dangled from her ears, matching the chunky necklace adorning her neck. It amusedly reminded him of Salma’s old statement necklace— Reminiscent of far away time, a time budding with youthfulness and passion.
Madame Soubanne, on the other hand, still appeared unable to part with that time, exactly like she couldn’t let go of the 2012 jewelry.
Upon recognizing the couple, she beamed, uncaring about further defining the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth with the movement.
“What a nice surprise!” She exclaimed.
Yassine strategically extended his hand before she could choose a more affectionate but suffocating alternative. However, he promptly discovered that with enough warmth in one’s disposition, even a handshake could be affectionate, if the way she used both her hands to sandwich his while she asked after him in ten different ways, without leaving a pause for an answer, is any indication. To his dismay, Salma was enjoying the sight of his discomfort in polite silence. It was up to him to save himself from the assault —by directing it at his wife.
“ I didn’t introduce you to my wife, Salma,” he said, cutting her off before she finished her question about his poor pale friend who used to come there every week with him. “ You two graduated from the same university.”
His defense tactic was a brilliant success, because the older woman looked at the younger one with renewed enthusiasm before tackling her with a fervent handshake, sophisticated air kisses, and questions about that one professor who used to be her close friend. Salma answered her calmly and with fewer nervous laughs than him. Only after making sure that Salma loved that professor and attended his latest seminar did Madame Soubanne remember that the couple weren’t here only to catch up.
“Can I help the lovely couple with anything?” she asked, her eyes rimmed with blue pencil darting between them excitedly. “ I can give you a tour.”
“Thank you. We’d love to do that another time,” he said. “We’re actually here to donate a few things that we had. I know you’re not currently collecting donations, so I hope it’s okay.”
“No, no, don't worry. We’d love to receive them any time.”
“Perfect,” he clasped his hands, “I’ll go get them from the car.”
“I’ll help you,” Salma said, moving to the door.
“Do you need some young assistance?” the manager asked, gesturing to the receptionist who was sitting politely at his desk.
“No, it’s okay. We got it,” Yassine said, a little too quickly, as he opened the door for his wife and himself.
After the three knee-high boxes — they really didn’t hold back their credit cards when it came to him — and the stroller were successfully placed in the middle of the shelter’s storage room to be sorted later, Yassine dusted off the imaginary debris, more out of relief than self-satisfaction. Salma checked, for the hopefully last time, the small box containing his feeding bottles and food trays for any damage— Salma always insisted they avoid using plastic.
Madame Soubanne kneeled in front of one of the boxes and opened it to scan the colorful contents. By a mockery of fate, he had to lock eyes directly with the creepy blue goose inside, so he busied himself with observing the storage room’s moldy corners, superstitiously avoiding the plushie’s derisive line of vision. That is, until he was forced to look at Madame Soubanne when she spoke.
“ There are so many things, wow,” she brushed the blue plushie with the tips of her fingers, “Don’t you still need them? How did the big boy let you give his tops away anyway?” she jokingly added.
That was a good question. They had never paused to think about how he would feel about their actions. Would he let them give away his precious friends? Would he let them get rid of every last trace of his existence, save for the weight his parents carry in their hearts? Would he forgive them for finding the weight too heavy, for letting the wounds fade into scars? What if he came back running to them one day, only to find that they forgot him , or replaced him ? If they did, he would lose the last trace of his existence. They couldn’t let what they swore to protect fade into oblivion.
His eyes darted to Salma. She always wisely said that we should keep the people we love alive, said people being an old underground band that only she and her friends still remember. Regardless, the message still stands. He must remain part of their home and their hearts, one way or another.
“Oh,” Madame Soubanne said, looking between the couple apologetically and deducing the obvious, “ I’m terribly sorry. I-uh, I didn’t know you lost your-”
“It’s fine,” Salma smiled tightly. “You couldn’t know.”
At that moment, Yassine wished the older woman would continue her idle chattering, if not to fill the silence, then to remove the sympathetic expression her face took. He saw it too many times for it to be of any help. The doctor, his parents, his friends, the neighbors; they all use it when the situation is hopeless, when nothing else can be of help. Ironically, that sympathy only reminds one of their helplessness, and what help is that?
“I think uh, we brought everything now!” Salma exclaimed, metaphorically chasing away the depressive atmosphere. He didn’t know if she was aware of the heroine she was at that moment.
“Yes, yes,” Madame Soubanne softly said, straightening up and dusting off her knees. “Thank you so much for your donations. We really need them. They’d love new toys and clothes, and you know… I hope you know you made many faces shine today.”
Yassine finally managed to mirror the smile she gave them.
“Thank you,” he said, not trusting his voice with anything more.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” the manager said, regaining a portion of her cheerfulness.
Once thankfully out in the street, the silence inside the storage room was replaced by the rumble of car engines and the honks of neurotic drivers. A soft wind blew away a few hairs from Salma’s face, and, when their eyes met, it also blew away the weight in her eyes. She smiled.
“Your dog’s name was Soulayman, right?” Madame Soubanne asked.
Yassine inhaled through his nose and nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” Salma said, “ Yassine named him Sou-he suggested the name.”
Madame Soubanne smiled sympathetically and extended the blue bird plushie to the couple.
The toy all but begged him to take it, just as it had during the countless times he and Salma had to pull him away from his mouth. The plushie’s eyes, the two embroidered black dots, held pain, sorrow, and confusion that Yassine was too familiar with. Its smile understood, comforted, and invited him to take it. It would forgive him if he did.
“Keep it. Soulayman would want you to take care of his goose friend,” she said.
“Duck,” Yassine said, taking Salma’s hand in his and taking the toy with his other hand, “It’s a duck.”
_____________________________The end______________________________