Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

“I read that in a poem.”
“When do you have the time?”
Lamya turned to him, looking down. The sunlight fanned out against her round cheeks,
bruised by the heat. “That was from before. I wanted to know more about New York since I
heard you went there. I was afraid I would have nothing to talk about when I met with you.”
New York, the tops of the pointy buildings itched behind his eyelids. The memories felt
faded and fresh. “Say it again,” Hamza asked.
“Can you hear? The police siren, fire-engine siren. Our city, also, has its native birds.”
His body was caught in a wind tunnel between two large buildings, his chest tightened.
“How can you still hear all that after all those years of living there?”
A faint clinking came from outside.
Hamza looked up at Lamya and she seemed ready to cry, but he had stopped being good
at reading those things.
“I’ve never lived there,” she said.
“I know,” he told her, quickly.
She moved a hand to her stomach, turning her knee towards the glass. His hand slipped
off onto the warm windowsill.
Hamza moved his thumb against the seam of her dress, she edged away with a small
smile. “Tickles?” he asked her.
“No.”
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