A RAMADAN TALE
Near the end of the first day of my third Ramadan, Omar went to the store as the sun set and returned at the brink of the moon, bearing everything I requested except the dried fruit.
I specifically said dried apricots and raisins. When he left I had just started to grow hazy and loopy. Everything else: the band aids, the cotton balls, the toothpicks, the headache medicine, and even the tampons could have waited for some other time.
It’s important, I told him before he left, my voice grainy and low. I saw him cut his eyes at me, those always accusing eyes, always annoyed eyes, always assuming that my suffering is exaggerated eyes. But how could he argue against the sunken moats that circled my pupils, making my eye-sockets appear as empty as a skeleton’s?
We’ll have nothing to break the fast with if you don’t pick up the fruit, I said. We’ll have to starve until I finish cooking.
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