خلخال

                Morning. Inside, indoors.                 Giza. Sunlight drowns the room with softness. The dark wooden floor boards seem tranquil; they are loved.   Under dust, and debris of days gone past they lie in the steel file holder standing on wheels. Those are the ones that have gained a certain privilege; which she has shown off to visitors, random ones, other than him. Some are out of focus – slightly – and some are precise as the pulling of a kohl pencil between eyelids closed with certainty.                 Morning. Mug of black tea. The rhythm of the cars and buses passing under the windows has a familiar and unfriendly feel in the ears. She opens the steel file holder and takes them out. The ones fate has chosen to be present. She spreads them on the floor boards aroun...