She asked me if I was a student at the university nearby, and I said no. I ordered a latte, and almost ordered the fresh hummus in a glass jar but didn’t. Many inquiries about where I’m from, who I am, or what I do seem to end this way, with a no. And yet I haven’t gotten used to being misidentified. She placed the change on the counter with my receipt. This is something we have all become accustomed to now, no longer placing things in another’s palms. My own relationship, rendered mostly secret by nature of our cultural differences, carries a similar fate in public spaces. Sometimes we have to pretend there has never been any intimacy in our fingertips. It’s not a fate I’m entirely used to, I like it when palms are placed in other palms—when one is holding the other, and the other is holding on too.
I love how you weave everything together effortlessly. The threads appear, wind around and suddenly reappear at a later point. I feel as though I am reading your mind. You are a REMARKABLE writer. Thank you for sharing
I love how you weave everything together effortlessly. The threads appear, wind around and suddenly reappear at a later point. I feel as though I am reading your mind. You are a REMARKABLE writer. Thank you for sharing
Helen, thank you so much for following the threads :)