I’ve been trying to write lists to control my thoughts:
1. Drink water.
2. Pay rent.
3. Make enough money to pay rent?
4. Do not collapse.
But these lists collapse before I do.
I’ve been writing for two hours, hoping you’ll read till the very last word without getting bored or wondering who the idiot behind it is.
I am. Adnan; and I woke up today convinced that my bedroom ceiling was mocking me.
I had fallen asleep last night with the TV on. A man on the news was saying the country is healing. They always say that. If we are healing, why do my hands tremble when I reach for my coffee from the barista every morning?
Anyway, the kettle wouldn’t boil. “A watched pot never boils.”
What if I pretended not to watch? Would it boil faster? Like playing hide-and-seek with a kettle. Should I try it now? I laughed at the thought, then stopped because it wasn’t funny.
Or was it?
One last look in the mirror before rushing to the bakery – better wear a hat over these black curls. Blue shirt and jeans? No. Too much for a bread run.
This wrinkled blue cotton top, the one with a loose neckline, my faded gray shorts and slippers, worn at the heel – they’ll have to do. Hopefully, no one will stare. Except for the baker… Ah, the baker! He’s going to say something, look too long, analyze. I hate when he does that.
Maybe I’ll just change.
The baker smiled wide enough to show teeth, his eyes big enough to dissect me. I had already made my decision last night after I had climbed into bed and gotten cozy. I rehearsed the way I usually rehearse the exact bills I’ll hand over. Today I broke the cycle. No cheese. No more safety. I ordered zaatar instead – a small rebellion, but mine.
He wrapped my Manoushe, oil dripping onto the paper wrap. I gave him the money; exact change, the way I always do. I plan it every time, down to the last bill, so I don’t have to struggle with the leftovers.
But today, the Manoushe suddenly cost me more. Just like that. As if money grows on the branches of my nervous system.
I froze. I hadn’t carried my whole wallet, just the notes I thought I’d need. My fingers went cold as I checked my pocket twice, three times, as if the missing bills might magically appear.
“Don’t worry,” he said, still smiling. “You can pay me anytime you want.”
Sometimes I imagine another version of me – louder, braver, unbothered by the absurdity and terror of the world. That Adnan would shout at his bedroom ceiling until it backed away. That Adnan would tell the baker, “This is too much oil.” That Adnan would stand in front of the TV and shout, “No. We are not healing.”
Instead, I’m here at the kitchen table, writing this, talking to myself, pretending that someone might read it. Pretending this voice doesn’t echo only inside my skull. Pretending it matters.
My Manoushe has gone cold. The kettle has finally boiled. And the ceiling? Well, the ceiling is still watching, waiting.
