Bubbles (4)

Part 1 :

Part 2:

Part 3:

Oh look, another flashback. How very creative.

Amina had always prided herself on her ability to give very few fucks.

The only thing she enjoyed more than not getting involved in other people’s affairs was people not getting involved in hers.

Live and let live.

Even so, there are some sights one just can’t ignore.

Like an injured kitten looking at you with pleading eyes.

Or a scrawny kid sitting on the stairs of your apartment at 11pm.

--

He was a skinny, tiny little thing. He was sitting in a corner, his arms around his knees, probably trying to take as little space as possible. His brown, curly hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. He had tired grey eyes, a crooked nose, and more notably, a huge knife scar that slashed across his left cheek. His jacket and jeans had tears on them.

Teenage boys had a notoriously bad sense of hygiene, but this was just a kid, and Amina could smell him long before she could see him.

As she stepped into her apartment lobby, they both froze and stared at each other. He looked genuinely terrified.

Amina tried very hard to ignore him. She had a very long day, and all she wanted was a shower and 13 consecutive hours of sleep. And yet, she stood there, incapable of moving.

After a very long time, she sighed and bent down to his eye level.

- “Hey there buddy. Are you okay?”

He meekly nodded.

- “Whatcha doing there?”

- “Oh, I’m... I’m just waiting for my father to get home.”

Huh. Sketchy.

- “I lost my keys.” He explained with a little sniffle.

- “I see. Do you have his number? We can give him a call.”

- “Ah, no that’s all right. He doesn’t have a phone.”

He went back into occupying himself by staring at his shoes. Amina sighed.

- “Why don’t you come inside? We’ll wait for him together.”

- “I... Thank you but I don’t want to bother you. He’ll be here soon.”

- “So, what you’re saying is, you’d rather sleep on these cold stairs than spend time with your friendly neighbour. I see,” she pouted, pretending to be offended.

He blushed furiously. Amina was astonished to see that he was holding back tears

- “No... I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” He muttered.

She felt absurdly guilty. She wanted to touch his shoulder and reassure him, but something told her that would only scare him further.

- “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just joking,” she tried.  He nodded as he rubbed his eyes.

A little moment passed as she tried to find the right words.

- “Can you do me a favour and come home with me? I’m scared of the dark, and I need a strong man to escort me.”

He snorted and started chuckling nervously. She laughed as well, feeling a little tingle in her heart.

- “Please? You’d be doing me a huge favour,” she added

- “Okay. Thank you.” He said meekly as he stared at the ground.

------

Whenever Moroccan women have kids as guests, they have a tendency to stuff as much food as humanly possible into them. Amina was no exception.

We are all slaves to our genes.

She watched the kid closely as he tried to nibble politely at the chicken pasta she had heated for him. But his hunger took over, and he started eating increasingly faster, as if scared the food would disappear.

She served him seconds as she tried to discreetly extract information from him.

His name was Ahmed. He was, in fact, seventeen years old, and not nine like she initially assumed. She felt embarrassed about baby talking him earlier.

She also learned that he lived two doors away from her, with his father who was an old retired veteran.

She did not miss the flash of disgust that passed on his eyes when talking about him. Amina didn’t press for more details.

Live and let live, she reminded herself.

Amina dug out some of her brother's old clothes, then gently nudged Ahmed towards the shower. It took a few minutes of convincing (mostly that he wasn’t bothering anybody), before he finally went in.

After half an hour of him in the shower, she got worried and went to check on him. She almost knocked, until she heard the quiet sobs through the door. She turned around and went back to the kitchen.

Mantras and principles are nice things to have, until reality smacks you in the face.

Twenty minutes later, Ahmed emerged from the shower with fresh clothes. He seemed a little bit more relaxed.

Amina had prepared a mattress for him on her spare room. He could “wait there for his father”. He quietly acquiesced and lay down. Five minutes later, he was fast asleep.

Amina watched him for a little while, then turned off the lights, closed the door and went back to her bedroom.

I’m not going sleep for 13 hours, am I?