Madeeha Hashmi
The atomic bomb wristwatch going tick-tock-tick on my wrist makes up for the clock tower’s lack of a second hand. The tower’s boom-clanging bells take the place of the silent arrow marking the hours on the face of my time-teller. The clock tower rings itself hours back to a different time, and my little ticker moves ever forward, ever closer to the minute I must see his face.
…..All these noises and more still. Pipe-organ, dissonant orchestra rehearsal spills out into the streets. Footstep sounds scattered by the wind before they walk into my ears. Oh, and ringers too, and cellular devices clicking open, clacking shut – mine sitting muffled-mute in my pocket. The city makes me thankful that I cannot hear the rising-falling voices of the servants, locked behind my skin, in charge of keeping me alive.
…..Chewy, soft clay people are sitting on the sun-chapped stone benches. I watch them eat from plastic, paper, and tin. Mouths open, lips close, words escaping get swallowed whole by the loafy-cloudy loudness. I am only able to hear the lucky syllables that cheat the city system and come to whisper at my shoulder. The language is mostly ‘he is’ and ‘she was’ with an occasional naughty noun joining in because it wants to give away secrets. I hear birthday, glasses, and molasses, but it is really just he, he, he. All the he words and his words and male words become him before me. I can feel him now, a full two hours before I’m supposed to.
…..The chipped-pottery words break up into pieces, and I become a mechanical metronome. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four – I count the black squares nestled between the white ones on the tabletop. I believe it is marble. I believe it is not. One, two, three, one, two three – dancers on puppet strings waltz their way across these false rectangles on summer evenings when the white-capped men come to play. I have seen them handle their queens so roughly, to keep their kings from becoming coated in the grit and grime from the sewer grates just off the sidewalk by my feet. Rickety-rackety, feeble entertainment from these thoughts is not enough to keep my mind from traveling into tunnels, into traps too tricky for even the best strategist.
…..He sends for me when I am among the leftovers at last. Their meals are finished and I, too, am done as dinner. My lips curve at his voice, but I am not aware of the direction they have chosen. ‘Hello, hello,’ he feels he brings good fortune riding on radio waves. Funny, very funny that in our conversation his voice comes through the ‘speaker’, but in reality, in our selfish-solo-shows there are no speakers but us. I do distract, I do deviate. I panic. I pat my son of a ‘yes’ on the shoulder and push him into the phone with my tongue after his fifth hello. Shielding myself with my children; what a cowardly mother I shall make.
…..Under the Thompson Building, he has promised. He will be waiting at the entrance in front of those merry-go-round revolving doors that he claims I like so much. His Magic-8-Ball eyes roll to give vague answers (but answers at least), and they want to see my city. And not only this, but his grapevines shall wrap around my waist while we stroll leisurely on the pavement. I distort his description perhaps, but I really do dread the thought of seeing him. With every stride that brings me closer to the building, I dread it.
…..Red wine drinkers are his ready-made painted backdrop. They lounge inside the building in a rosily upholstered lobby that I am sure seems the more enchanting because I am not there. No, I am not, but I am inside his eyes when he catches me and his pupils squeeze me closer. Quick smiles and quick steps and soon I am next to him, fitting in like nuts and bolts, joining the city like a magnet. I fear he knows; of course he knows. I reach for his hand, but he lets mine slip from his fingers.
…..The bodies and buses, the characters and cars – it all comes rushing in at me. There has never been such a quicksand-sinking feeling. The manhole covers are all absent, and I am falling down all the shafts. The city morphs and bends and dollops of wax grease the soles of my shoes, and I find I cannot stand. It seems he has thrown me into the flurry of those spinning doors. I did not want him at all, but now I do what I must. I reach out to cling to everything that’s his, To him.
…..Rejoice, rejoice, the order is restored and this voracious city wins once more. Tip-tap, meek water droplets go down the drain, and I follow him down the street.
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Madeeha Hashmi lives in Toronto, Canada. She is currently completing her final year of high school and will be attending university in the fall of 2010. She aspires to continue writing and creating for the rest of her life, and hopes that she will have more of her work published in the future. Her thoughts can be found on her blog Paper Bags & Napkins.
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