Short Stories
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- Written by: Hayat Alyaqout
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A black vertical cloud, that's how they see me. A talking walking dark black cloud, black all year round.
I contemplate June's clear sky, hoping for salvation. I descend the usual three yellow steps of the bus, take exactly 11 heavy steps to reach John's grocery shop.
"Why doesn't he get someone to help him with the bagging?" I often wonder. Someone who would not insist on putting my groceries in black bags claiming that he ran out of the other bags today, someone who tells me that I can't have my fabric environment-friendly bag with me inside his shop, someone who would talk to me and make some eye contact.
Why don't I find another place to shop? I don't know! I guess I'm too tired and lazy to take extra steps, or too self-sorry to face a worse version of John somewhere else.
I'm now used to it, that sob that tethers my throat is not there anymore, I don't want to cry. What happens is a common place now. Well, he even almost smiled when I told him happy birthday.
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