Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

It got dark as he walked down the streets. He didn’t like decisions, but he made a pattern
for himself. With every turn he faced, he would go left, right, straight, left, right, straight, and so
on. Sometimes the road took him on a path of its own. Sometimes he chose to turn into the
shade or to avoid a place where he heard kids playing or people talking.
By the end of it, he was at a place as equally as uninteresting as everywhere else. He
knew if he turned around he would see a mosque and a small barbershop, a fruit cocktail place.
He would see the dukkan, the cars beeping with men inside them, trying to stay hidden. There
was nothing new to be discovered.
He wanted to feel lost, he wanted to feel anxious that he would never make it home.
Perhaps he did, a little. But really, it was like pulling the end of a tape measure, soon enough it’ll
recoil back in itself and within a split second, be back with a loud ​crack​.
The lights were on upstairs. Hamza kicked off his shoes outside then went in, closing the
door quietly. Lamya’s work bag was on the sofa by the door.
He stopped to listen, but he was too hungry to concentrate.
In the kitchen, he ate rice from the pot on the stove.
Then, the lights came on.
“Oh, Hamza,” Lamya gasped.
Hamza turned with the spoon in his mouth, then took it out and placed it on the counter.
“Sorry, I had forgotten to eat.”
Lamya seemed to want to laugh but did not. “You’re always so busy.”
She set down what must have been Haya’s dishes in the sink before holding out a hand to
him.
Hamza took it with his left hand then swapped it for his right which was closer to her. He
almost didn’t want to. He wanted her to be angry at him, or at the least unimpressed.
“You want me to at least heat some up for you?” she asked.
“Who picked you up from the conference?” Hamza asked back.
His hand slipped out of hers as she shifted to the stove, switching it on. She still had her
hair done up and there were tiny red lines on the nape of her neck from that scratchy necklace
that hurt but she loved to wear anyway.
“Well, Reem’s son now stays with her mother who lives in that house I told you was
close, so I went with her,” she told him, looking over her shoulder at him with a small smile.
She was going out of her way not to accuse him, as if he was someone who was too
thoughtless to be held accountable.
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