...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAA
Mustapha, who had gone the night before, in
Rabat. Saccharine, I thought, stood holding my
bag and Lucia’s in order for her to hold
Ahmed’s, who was trying to struggle with his
wife to be, Rajib’s bag. Like a circle of despair:
we were all trying to help the other, and in
doing so condescending each other; I could see
the pensive look in Ahmed’s eyes when Lucia
picked up his bag as we were called to board the
bus, for him to then pick up Rajib’s bag, and for
his wife to shuffle about as if broadcasting her
not knowing exactly what to do. Only when the
putting the bags into the carriage area did
Ahmed say something with slight gritted teeth.
—I can do it. And, stood watching, I assumed
Lucia’s doting was due to his disability: lacking
an arm is similar to lacking an ability to smell,
but much more blighted, I thought. But there
seemed more to this, I kept thinking to myself,
and this awkwardness only became more
translucent as the journey continued: Lucia
wanted to sit next to Ahmed so she squeezed
into the seat next to him and left Rajib, who I
instantly saw as a bystander to much of what was
occurring, and myself seated across from them,
sat next to each other; me at the window and
Rajib closer to the aisle, on the other side of
Ahmed and Lucia. This bus seating
arrangement seemed strange, and was only
made stranger by the occasion to observe this
form of Lucia, and Ahmed, who was distractedly
reciprocating by, often, smiling and then
touching Rajib’s arm sat on the armrest, which
195