8:09 pm, Dallas. The nervy stare of passengers as I move through Fort Worth has become an endearing constant and a staple of travel. I don’t really blame them, I’m young, I travel light, alone and I’m brown. Imagine if I actually had a beard or worse, a long beard.
The door opens. It’s raining but you can’t hear it, you can’t really see it either. Why am I looking for my name, this isn’t Pakistan. A Paki taxi driver comes up to me.
“Taxi?” he says, his face repulsed, from my breath I assume.
I give him my bag and he quickly puts it in the back of his corolla. I sit in the back. I have to show him his place and all.
“Where to?” he says with a fake ass smile and a glance at the clock.
“3142 Collins Street,” I pick up my legs and push my knees against the front passenger seat. I open the window and light a smoke.
“Masla tou nahi?” I ask, he replies “No – no problem.”
***
8:43 pm, Collins St. There’s a light on inside. I pop a tic-tac, can’t let her smell the Smirnoff. I take my phone out. The screen clicks open. Why is my hand shaking? Tap the green telephone thing. Okay? Okay. Nope, nope, nope, Mishaal, here it is. Click. Phones ringing.
“Hello…? I thought you were picking me up Mishaal.”
There’s a 3 second silence, I know, I counted.
“Wait what, wait what? You’re in Dallas?”
“I’m outside Fat-ass.”
There’s movement in the house, fast footsteps, now they’re slow, now they’re silent. She opens the door. She doesn’t have her bangs; her forehead is way too big. I smile and go to her. She’s light brown 5’2? and sort of chubby now. She’s wearing a white t-shirt; Mickey Mouse on it. Thing is, Mickey’s eyes are plastered with the word “Obey” and he’s flipping me the bird. Go figure.
The rain is slow, methodic. Her white shirt is getting wet but not really. She gives me a smile, cheek to cheek. Damn. I hug her, half body and all, can’t let the centers meet. Bad idea. My nose can’t smell anything, can’t smell her, damn rain.
“Does your mom know you’re here?” she asks, her hand lingering on my shoulder. That’s distracting.
“No-no one knows I’m here.” I start walking towards the house. I can’t hear her footsteps. Okay, okay, She’s coming.
I stand at the door, “roommates home?”
She opens the door going inside, “only Zoha”.
She says “ZOHA.”
A distant voice comes back “WHAT?”
She says back “SA – SA-DIQS HERE” really enunciating the name, she never really did like my name, said it was to hard to pronounce. For a few years she just called me “fag”, no kidding.
Zoha asks “who?” the voice is closer now, “Sadiq” Mishaal replies. Zoha comes to the lounge, yeah; I already sat down with all the screaming, bad memories.
“Mishaal? You should’ve told me he’s here.”
Mishaal starts to grind her teeth “I just screamed “SA – SADIQS HERE.”
Zoha gives Mishaal an “are you serious” look, “well I’m going, you guys have fun.” Zoha leaves the house; she looked nice. At least she’s thinner then her sister. Oh no misogyny, cry me a river. Mishaal comes and sits next to me on her couch. I pick up my legs and cross them, I’m small, can’t reach the floor, couch is sucking me in anyway. She does the same.
“You good?” she says getting up.
“I’m fine Mishaal, sit down.”
She looks at me “fine.”
Her phone is practically phasing out of her lime green “ice cream shorts” (that’s what she called them).
She goes on “where’re you staying?”
I cock my head, “I thought you said – that I could – stay here.”
Her lips purse in and her cheeks go up “Yea…well you can, if you want to.”
What the hell is she on about, “You said to me why don’t you visit me, that you missed me.”
She’s looking at the ground now, typical.
“Yeah I do miss you.”
Leave it to me to change the subject, “Do you have Hookah?”
Mishaal cracks her neck, squinting, she says “yeah I think so- I think I- I just have mint”.
I give her a smile. I smile a lot.
“You wanna make it?”
She replies, “you make it?”, Lazy-ass friend of mine.
“I’m the guest here, you should be making it for me.”
She tries to kick me while she gets up, she fails, that was funny. She gets the hookah flavor. The box says “100% tobacco free”, yeah right.
She’s taking the molasses out of the box, “I still read that song you know”, I wrote something for her, real sentimental. It was called “Trying to feel”. Though she doesn’t know I wrote “Dirty Blue Eyed Blonde” right after that.
I reply looking at her breaking the pieces of flavor, “I know, it’s the only thing I’ve written for you that you actually like”.
She’s not even doing it right, they’re supposed to be smaller pieces, “You’re wrong I liked the other stuff too, it was deep” she says with a wink.
A ‘hmm’ noise escapes my mouth, my nose shoves air out, I smile. She’s staring at me “You’re still wearing that shirt?” I look at what I’m wearing, it’s a black polo shirt, and I’ve had this since forever.
She loves this shirt, she’s worn this shirt, I reply “it’s not the same shirt.”
She’s left the hookah flavor now; she’s sitting on the counter.
She wipes the sweat off her enormous forehead “Soo…How’s…Caroline?” I’m looking at her. She’s, she’s just not her.
My mouth is open, “she..ah.. God knows man.” I can’t do this. Everyone was right.
I’m outside. All I smell is fucking wet Texas earth and I’m walking, I’m walking, I’m walking, going around in circles. I’m whispering to my self “The more things change, the more they stay the same. The more things change, the more they stay the same.” My neck hurts, my hair is a mess, I need to find a cab and I’m walking, I’m walking in fucking circles. She’s behind me, I can hear footsteps, I can hear them in this shitstorm.
