the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

“All my ex-boyfriends? There’s maybe one.”
“I don’t want to just be a trophy on your arm there, Kim.”
“A trophy? You’re hardly a trophy.”
I thought about what he was saying.
“What about a compromise, D.C. or New York?”
“I don’t want to live in the U.S. I have no interest.”
All my doubts clicked into place. Freedom Fries and all, this was still
my country. I didn’t want to move back to the States yet, but I didn’t
want to rule out the possibility of ever living here again. I had reverted
to my fantasy of normalcy, children, the things I was supposed to want,
rather than facing the fact that this relationship was doomed. The ghts
had just gotten worse; objects had been thrown. I would much rather be
alone than ever yell again, even if it meant being alone in Pakistan.
I walked into the Tribune Tower to say goodbye to my bosses and
churn through some paperwork before ying home to Islamabad.
Within three months, most of the glass oces would be lled with
dierent people. Most of the top editors would quit, including the man
who had written my name on an envelope, the editor in chief, and the
editor who wouldn’t let me talk to Sam. The motto of the Tribune
would change from the hopeful “World’s Greatest Newspaper” to the
realistic “The Midwest’s largest reporting team.” That evening, I
stepped o the elevator and walked past the inexplicable six-legged
statue on my way out the door. I glanced at the nearby quote from
Flannery O’Connor. It seemed apt: “The truth does not change
according to our ability to stomach it.” My limbo was becoming my life.