sidewalk scribbling

“What’s up with them?” Fahad says, looking at a couple of Asian students rush out of the train. “Must have gotten on the wrong train,” I reply, settling down, relieved that we had found empty seats.   [Our train journey to Grantham had been spent standing because the train was so busy.   I made my way down the aisle and stood right next to the priority seating, my jacket open, sneaking sulky looks at the oblivious young people sitting there.   ‘I thought English people are supposed to be polite,’ I muttered darkly to myself.   There’s that lack of confidence in foreign countries, the penalty of leaving home where you can demand your rights a bit more hotly.] Anyways, it hasn’t been a minute and the train has just picked up speed when Fahad says, is this train going to Norwich? The next stop is Peterborough. The tiniest spark of anxiety puffs up, and I look at the blue screen confirming what Fahad said.   We are most definitely not supp...

Hemingway stood crookedly by the sofa, his head bowed, his eyes droopy, his tail wagging sadly. He closed his eyes and wagged his tail with a little more enthusiasm as Fahad scratched his back and then flopped down, curling up contently on the cool cemented floor, nuzzling Fahad’s fingers. It was a strange setting for a lounge, the couches and chairs actually faced one another, there was no TV for all eyes to congregate on and a beautiful wooden coffee table rested in the center, with an ashtray and two glasses of water (set without coasters, little drops of condensation cooling on the rim). The wide doors and all the windows in the house were open, but the clouds had drawn together in the sky like a thick gray woolen blanket so it was dark inside, the sweet dim light of a very rainy morning. A beautifully light cool breeze filtered into the room, the faint sweet scent of wet earth and freshly bathed green grass hung around us. The smoke from the Malay lady’s Gold Leaf hung lazil...