Nothing feels right. Silence seems wrong, a retreat, while words are jarring.
It was only nine days ago that V. and I sat at dinner, the amber glow of the honey-paneled wall framing her face. We ate lemongrass chicken and vegetables and talked until we were both exhausted. I felt I'd known her forever.
Then Thursday morning, the shattering news.
That night after work, I stood at the corner by my office, numb, chilled by the wind, hoping to hail a cab. A couple of young guys approached me, smelling of several-too-many margaritas.
"Can we share with you?" they asked, and I unthinkingly said yes. Their energy, raw and exuberant, felt right somehow. In the cab, they chatted and thanked me sweetly, if somewhat drunkenly, when we reached their stop. The driver looked ahead, silently listening to a Koran sura, harsh and so very beautiful, as we made our way up the hill toward home.
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