[ a harsh beat in the night. the silence is filled with misgivings and the endless, rewinding reel of time long-past. alhaitham does not listen for it. the hush is filled with din, but that is how it has always been. what is unsaid remains white space between neat lines of text. the death certificate, the insurance policies, the registration for adoption, and the signed documents certifying emancipation. each one documented in neat, black ink, typecast in government-standard beamer, but in reality, the value of each document lay in what was written between the lines: a child, a child, a child.
twenty seven years ago, alhaitham had died. alhaitham now lives in an apartment that has been renovated into a space meant for books and not people, and surrounds himself with the silence of a life bought and a debt unpaid. kaveh begins to move in the night. alhaitham closes his eyes to hear him. his footfalls carry him to the kitchen amidst the whistling of an annoyed kettle. the clink of alhaitham's tea cup. the shuffle of hands; the whisper of cup against table.
alhaitham opens his eyes. he does not look. he does not need to. ]
Call for takeout, then. The menus are on the fridge.
[ the menus: pasted to the fridge via magnets, a mess of local take-out varieties and well-worn pamphlets. the eclectic mix is notably organised not by take-out variety but by distance to the apartment. also notably, none of the menus feature much soup. ]
no subject
twenty seven years ago, alhaitham had died. alhaitham now lives in an apartment that has been renovated into a space meant for books and not people, and surrounds himself with the silence of a life bought and a debt unpaid. kaveh begins to move in the night. alhaitham closes his eyes to hear him. his footfalls carry him to the kitchen amidst the whistling of an annoyed kettle. the clink of alhaitham's tea cup. the shuffle of hands; the whisper of cup against table.
alhaitham opens his eyes. he does not look. he does not need to. ]
Call for takeout, then. The menus are on the fridge.
[ the menus: pasted to the fridge via magnets, a mess of local take-out varieties and well-worn pamphlets. the eclectic mix is notably organised not by take-out variety but by distance to the apartment. also notably, none of the menus feature much soup. ]