Why a refugee and an immigrant won’t sing Michael Bublé’s ‘Home’

Bethelhem T.

It was Sunday morning, but the NYC Subway was as busy and noisy as ever. I was rushing like the Flash to change trains when I missed my connecting train by a split of a second.  And then, I realized I wasn’t the Flash after all; but more like the Barry Allen before the lightning.

Then I heard this song:

“I gotta go home….

Let me go home.

It’ll all be all right

I’ll be home tonight

I’m coming back home…”

A guy with the bluest eyes ever and five o’clock shadow was singing his guts out at the train platform.  His blond man-bun was coiled with a red bandana. His hands were performing magic with the guitar he decorated in different stickers of Celtic crosses. His guitar case open on the floor with a sign that tell his story in a nutshell; that he is a struggling artist who is trying to make a living until he is discovered.

I see why he is a ‘struggling artist’. Because he is freaking insensitive.  He lacks a sixth sense and if he continues on this path he soon would be just a ‘struggling human being’. An art can’t exist without sensitivity.

Many commuters, mainly tourists, gathered around him taking pictures, Snap-Chatting and giving him money. I rolled my eyes in annoyance.

I mean who sings rendition of ‘Home’ by Michael Bublé on a Sunday morning?  That’s beyond rudeness. It’s insensitive.  I headed to the other end of the platform away from him, his voice and that terrible song.

There are so many things wrong with that song from a refugee’s and an immigrant’s point of view.  It’s utopic with streaks of hypocrisy. The lyrics don’t make any sense at all, especially for someone who was forced to immigrate and can’t go home even if he or she wants unlike the singer.

I don’t think any  refugee or immigrant would ever sing Michael Bublé’s song or even like it; (unless of course you don’t understand the lyrics and like to jam to its tunes) I don’t think the song was meant to include any member of this section of the community.  For me it just highlights the scope of the trial we face in life’s lot; between those who can relate to the song and those who can’t relate to it.

It reminds me of my grandmother’s famous saying, “Abo zelewos, n’abo zeyblu kebki ybeki.” Roughly translated as the one who has a father cries to make the fatherless cry even more. Listen, for the other half, it is between the rock and the hard place– we are sandwiched between two evils – we can’t go back ‘tonight’ as the singer points it out at the last part of his song.

Clearly the singer and those who can relate to his song don’t know what missing home means. It’s when a son can’t bury his father because home has turned into a death trap. It’s when you let go of a hand  for otherwise a chainsaw would have done that for you.  It’s when you cross the desert, ford the ocean and set off into the jungle to escape from home. It’s when a father is longing for his toddler’s voice and kiss but can’t hold his child because home has become a hell on earth. It is staring at the pictures of your beloved ones for hours as you say your prayers pleading with God to keep them safe and to reunite you once again, to sleep holding their picture only to wake up drenched in sweat because of a nightmare, a fiancé postponing yet his wedding day because he can’t go back home, a sister’s sorrow because she can’t attend her young brother’s wedding day for she knows going home isn’t really an option….

How could a person who isn’t chasing a dream but is chased by oppression, persecution, hunger, death and torture sing this song? In my unsolicited opinion, only a chaser can sing this song, not the chased.

I do burst into tears when I hear this song, not because I am moved but at the irony of the disparity of the reasons that drives us out from our home;  for the chaser and the chased. The overwhelming sense of hiraeth we are engulfed with but has no immediate remedy…..

I put on my earphones and turned the volume to the max, blocking the song and the world around me. Yes, I want to go home. Let me go home, not because I have had my run nor that I am done, but because the evil back home is done and the waves have subdued their rage. Let me go back home to talk about the hypocrisy I saw and heard at the NYC train station, to lampoon Michael Bublé and his green lyrics that needs to mature.

And one more thing if I may, we wouldn’t send the letters home not because they aren’t just enough as the song goes but because we really can’t. Home might not be in the same address we left it before; and our beloved ones might not be there at all to receive or read the letter. So do you see why we can’t sing along?

“And I know just why you could not come along with me, but this was not your dream,” continues the singer to my dismay.

In our case, dream has nothing to do with it. If only the world would know- you can’t possibly imagine or think why our loved ones can’t come along with us. If only you knew, it would have changed your life forever and your lyrics would spring to life.

The other half often has a misguided notion of refugees and immigrants that totally disregard the reason why we leave home in the first place…. We are being chased; we aren’t chasing anyone or anything in particular. We heard and obeyed the voice of survival that screamed ‘Run!’ ‘Escape!’ ‘Live!’

So we can’t go back home. At least, not tonight.

Habesha and the gas station epidemic.

Bethelhem T.

Fresh out of the boat, as a Habesha moving to another country, the Google and its various services mean nothing to you. For some reason you prefer to avoid the search engines and networking with others like the plague. You spot your kind and you stay glued to them for better or worse.

For a while, your map, guide, bank, insurance, 911, Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz and the Google will be none other than yours truly the Habeshas you first encounter in your new country. And if you win a favor in their eyes, they will give you the book that holds all the life hacks and tips they learned before you. But this is if you didn’t challenge them with difficult questions and didn’t associate with others who aren’t from us. If you venture out, they banish you from their community. Your banishment from the Habesha community could be a blessing in disguise for that book has led so many astray, its cons weighting more than its pros.

I admit that the gossip mill that is run by the wind of the Habeshas in diaspora is cutthroat and fiercely fast, so staying connected with them would get you news of so many unnecessary things in your inbox- fresh and fast. This is what happens when technology is misused and abused at the wrong hands of a community who consider gossip as the second ingredient in making coffee and drinking it.

But on the other hand, news of job openings, sales and clearances notifications, shortcut to destinations and transportation, and other knowhow are sorted and distributed by the Habeshas especially in the first week of your arrival or maybe longer if you are too little too slow like someone I know.

The 11th commandment of the Habesha society is: Thou shall not venture out and taste the waters by yourself. This has been incorporated into our belief system; so we stay caged even though the doors are open and the opportunities are vast.

Have you ever wondered why most Habeshas first start working at a gas station? I used to wonder if Habeshas receive their second visas at a gas station or if it was part of some secret honor code to uphold in our community in diaspora. In some areas, it seems it is mandatory or else your Habesha card will be revoked.

Last year, I saw a friend of mine working at a gas station during my visit to Washington D.C. He has two degrees one in Accounting and the other in Economics. He was one of the cool kids who two-timed women all the time but still was charming.

It’s all about the bills here,” he stops for a while and continues to say “I can’t afford to have a dream right now.” He smiles and I forget my next question. Damn! he still got it.

This is the only thing you can do here,” he said as he fumbled with his fingers. “Our degrees mean nothing here.”

Says who?

The Habesha community who have been here before us?

I don’t look down on jobs nor do I degrade any kind of work.  By all means do what you are doing wholeheartedly or halfheartedly- whichever keeps your heart at peace.  No ill feelings intended in writing this article but I seriously want to ask questions that have been bothering me ever since I saw my friend working at the gas station. Your opinions and experiences are welcomed here. What is the cause of this epidemic?

The person who first welcomes us to their homes influence our mentality towards our lives in diaspora; to conquer or to be conquered starts in the brain with the information we are fed by the people who we first meet and interact with. We internalize their experience and follow the paths they embarked. Uniformity is our hallmark, for heaven’s sake!

Lady Luck smiled down on me to have me surrounded with ambitious people and persons who love to challenge life and all its formulas. They reinforced in me what I have grew up hearing, ‘the sky is the limit……go and become.’  My degree didn’t seem to be a factor in determining what I wanted to do and be- I know this form of thinking is so unHabesha of me- but many of my peeps considered my application to an Ivy League school a suicide. A Mission Impossible. But those who were around me told me to go for it and I did.

Someone thought I was too naïve to want to pursue my masters in the same field of study as my B.A., he then offered his unsolicited advice to tone down my ambitions in life and perhaps change my career path to medicine or nursing since that is the most lucrative career here. Someone else offered to speak to his boss to hire me at a gas station and I was told to forget entertaining the idea of a job in my profession. But my favorite moment came when someone offered to show me how to log into a computer, and he also wild guessed that the one thing that must have impressed me most in U.S. is the opportunity to drink soda any time I want. Dude please!  I still thank God for the calmness that covered me that particular moment when all I wanted to do was turn green and go the Hulk on him, I wanted to tore him into pieces and glue him back with some common sense and humility. Somebody tell that boy I didn’t pop out of the cave as he did.

Just because my uncle came here with a ten-grade education level and couldn’t find any other job  but at a gas station doesn’t mean that I have to go through the same process. Although they have your interest at heart, the Habesha community don’t won’t you to venture out and explore. So we keep passing the torch of the gas station job and fear of challenging the status quo to the new-comers as we recite the eleventh commandment in our hearts; Thou shall not venture out and taste the waters by yourself.

Please protect yourself from this epidemic and venture out, that’s the antidote.

Please share your experience and ideas on this topic on the comment section. Thank you.

The day I birthed Anger

Bethelhem T.

I have met anger. On a cold February day, three years ago. It was the first day of the three-months’ military training I was conscripted to.

The announcement for my second-round military training carelessly spewed a semen of anger that soon gave a life to something inside me. And, on that cold day in February, it manifested itself. Anger fathered anger.

I have not yet forgotten how anger looks like. I don’t think I will ever forget; after all I have conceived and birthed it.


“Stay in line.”

“Left! Right! Left!

The sergeant was barking orders.

But I was in labor.

I tried to follow the orders but it seemed as if my ears were listening but somehow forgot to send the message to my mind. My whole body was engulfed with pain, emotional pain that was manifested in physical constrains – making me unable to follow orders. I know I am not supposed to cry, in a military rule, but tears rolled down my cheek as if racing to get to the finish line of the ground.

Upon reaching the age of eighteen, everyone in my country is conscripted to the army that entails a more-than-six-months military training in the military camps. The camps were harsh.  It was an experience that makes you contemplate death on a regular basis, with the same tone and indifference you would choose over a menu of dessert after lunch. Doing it once was a walk through hell. Going through it twice, it becomes personal.  Then, it’s the hell that walks through you. Burning you, reducing you into an ash.

I looked at the sky and pronounced God dead.

Surely if he is alive he won’t make me go through this. Twice. Especially when I have pleaded and prayed not to experience this hell again. My faith boat was violently rocked that day. I hated my creation and doubted the creator.

My limbs were hurting from all the jogging and trainings. My mind was blank. I was barely aware of the things happening around me. But I was consciously aware of one thing- the burning fire inside me.

I don’t recall how I changed into my clothes from the training pants. I don’t remember how I managed to walk the short distance from the training field to the highway. All I remember is flagging down a cab and carefully slipping my numbing body inside.

Lion Hotel.” I whispered my destination to the cabbie. I turned my face and welcomed the torrent of tears that have been barely held back.

This is what I don’t understand about that day, how I managed to change my clothes. How I was able to walk or flag a cab? To this day, I wrestle with myself in trying to figure out what has actually happened that day. Did I possibly use my anger as endorphin to numb my mind from remembering or staying conscious? Or was I too proud to break down in the face of strangers that I managed to stay composed? If my reason is the latter one, then I am a hypocrite and this narrative is biased.

The staircase to the hotel bar was another set of challenges to question my psychological stamina but I climbed it slowly and made it to the top.

There I saw my friends joking around each other, the way we always do.  As I approached their table, I saw the concern on their faces and some of them were able to crack some jokes as some commented on my looks- hitting me hard when I was already down.

Anger came to the earth unannounced and waited no longer for the midwives.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything…but I couldn’t utter a word. I opened my mouth but all that came out was incoherent sound. I tried again, again and again… but no word came out. And all I wanted to say was “I want to die.”

The shock that I might have lost my vocal abilities sent me straight to paralysis of fear and I collapsed.

Did I lose my voice forever? Am I going to be able to speak again?” were questions that raced in my mind. My faith was restored as quickly as it was discarded upon beholding the vast blue-sky right before I closed my eyes and pleaded mercy from the lord above.

The Mirror and I


The mirror and I
Looking one another in the eye
Have been asking each other why,
We tear up and cry?
After we kissed our lover goodbye?

I ask the mirror why
Mirror answers back with another why

Why does his taste lingers in my mouth?
His scent fresh in my house?
My toothbrush isn’t cleansing enough
His stain stubborn and tough
Why doesn’t the shower rinse me of him?
I backspace but can never delete him?
Why is it mirror?
That he defies the rules of nature?
Mirror echoes back
Never to reply, but to ask
To pin me down with the same question
As if I don’t already have full plate of confusion

The Habesha Vampire 

He lost me

Before he even had me
He was standing in the dark corridor 

Strapped with doubt as an armor 

But the path that leads to my heart

Can only be journeyed with a blind trust

He wasn’t able to cross the threshold 

Like a vampire on hold,

When the doors weren’t even closed

He wished to be summoned,

Waiting for my invitation 

He was trapped in hesitation 

I couldn’t utter the magic word

Thus, I drew my sword

If he chose to stay on the hallway 

I must then keep him at bay

He lost me 
Just before he knew me
I can outline his shadow 

His silhouette visible on the window 

The blood rushing through my neckline 

Filled both of us with dangerous adrenaline 

When I’ve left the door ajar

He wanted invitation; proper and formal

Like a vampire on hold,

He couldn’t cross the threshold 

I paraded my soul for sell

Before reason woke me up of the spell

To a man who doesn’t know my worth

I was going to give my blood oath

But that fool lost me

Before he owned me 

As I gained back me,

I learned to close the door behind me

John Tekle must die

Continued from earlier…………

I hate anything sour, bitter and acidic. I don’t really delight in sweets either. But on any given day, I would gladly choose sweets over bitter, sour or the likes. I think this is the main reason I befriended John Tekle, because I know that rotten apples taste sweeter -it was mainly a question of my taste buds, nothing more or less. If I may say so, John Tekle is a pathetic excuse for a human being and needs to be avoided at all costs-not to be befriended under any circumstances- even if your taste buds can’t stand sour and bitter.

What amused me most was the fact that all the other girls agreed to discuss ‘John Tekle’ including any other issues of men in general out in the open. Have I gone mad or is this just insane? Since when do Habesha exes team up against a man, who obviously was playing dirty games and tricks? For me it was like watching a Habesha version of  the Hollywood movie “John Tucker must die” all over again, R-rated and unabridged. Only this time with a slight change in context here and there, and surely the last name is ‘Tekle’ not the famous ,’Tucker’, but regardless it is still a John.

“I want to know how John operates so that I and others can avoid being a victim of another Tekle or Tucker in the future.” She told me between her lunch bites, I had forgotten all about the time difference between the two states.

“Let it go. Forget and forgive. He isn’t worthy of your time and effort. Focus on your new boyfriend.”  I advised her. I was trying to sound cool and composed to the guy who was walking so close by and doing the worst attempt of eavesdropping.

She giggled and asked me if I have a company around. What I like about this girl is that she is so quick and witty. I have no idea how she would fall for a Tekle or a Tucker.

“We decided to be good friends. He is my friend. I have forgiven him but I can’t let him continue on his mission to play with others’ emotions. That is why I am making a fool of myself by trying to reach out to the others who are also involved with him and openly talking about the nature of our relationships with him.  I believe there is a healing, a cure and preventive methods in conversing.”  Her determination deserves a standing ovation but the little selfish me still thinks that forgetting him and moving on is the best remedy for this little situation. Let the other girls who would meet him in the future know him for who he truly is on their own without any sort of guidance from the exes. It is their lives, choices, preferences and matter of taste to be associated with such a person.  We should respect their choices and rights.

“Do you know why I hate breakup songs or songs that are sung to express one’s dying feeling over the other?” I asked her randomly. She giggled and said she doesn’t know the reason. “It is because it is a waste of time, effort and emotion. If you are over someone, then it is over. Why would anyone sing a song of breakup with ridiculous lyrics that goes like….’your smile,I am over it. Your touch, I am over it. I am over it…..bla bla’?”  She couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are one tough cookie, Fiammetta.” She was still laughing as she dropped me a compliment.

In her attempt to write the yellow directory, the new weirdo in my life, is trying to bring together all the women in this man’s life; both his friends, his lovers and a third section of  what he usually refers to as his ‘cousins’. According to her, Habesha men think that Habesha women don’t confide in friends or relatives or exes about their  affairs with a man thus giving the man the freedom to play his amateur Don Juan games while he strings along many women at once.  Habesha men are at liberty to do whatever they want because they know that Habesha exes lack the tradition of maintaining a civil relationship among themselves. One thing that intrigued me most when I came to the United States was the experience I had in sharing a table with two women who had a deep relationship with the same man. One was his high school sweetheart and the other his wife. I remember having an indigestion from the shock of the whole experience and the novelty of the norm of discussing a certain man and the nature of the relationship openly with other women who have had shared his life with him at one time in life. I have prided myself in being unconventional and yet I couldn’t comprehend this concept nor were I able to accept it.   It is still hard for me to picture Habesha exes sitting together and conversing the nature of their relationship openly with the other women in a certain man’s love life. Can you?

This girl, however,  wants to challenge this custom and  wants to talk about it openly and honestly.  Well, I really feel sorry for John Tekle for he seems to have a taste in weird and smart women, but can a woman be smart and actively dating at the same time?  I have lived in a foggy hypnosis till now, hypnotizing myself to believe that I am a smart woman. But sometimes I think that smart woman is just another oxymoron- they can’t both exist as an adjective and a noun together. I mean every woman ceases to be smart when she meets a man. It is like men feed on our smartness and as women, we,  can’t be smart and be in love at the same time. It is like we have to choose one. I have never seen a smart woman in love to this day, if anyone claims they have or they are, I suggest they be honest to themselves just for a split second’s moment and smell the coffee. In the end we all are fools when it comes to love, at least those section of us who blindly and blissfully believe that love is a blind, sarcastic dictator who plays dark jokes on its victims.  Once too many times I have heard love being referred to as a disease, often I have been asked what the symptoms of love are, I neglected to provide the persons with an answer for the fear that I might murder their already sick, weak and bedridden image of love in their heads. I should have advised them to get an antibiotic or vaccine shot against the pink fever of love. I have always assumed that if love is indeed a disease, its fever would be referred to as ‘a pink fever’.

Frankly speaking the stories she has gathered so far have shocked me a bit, apparently he seemed to be copy-pasting the same messages to all the women in his life, including those close and distant ‘cousins’ of his. And what he confided in me as a secret naturally was not a secret anymore, for he has told every other woman in his life the same stories swearing each and every one of us for secrecy  and making us feel somehow special. The story of the first ex was just mind-blowing and nothing like it was reported to me by him. Clever of him to omit some important details and incidents that eventually led to their breakup.

I got to give it to him though, he is really good. In fact very good that he made me want to recruit him into the 007 mission and make him the Habesha version of James Bond. But again I shouldn’t admire him that much for he was beat by the very girl he deceived.  Apparently, he was no match for her. He is playing the game she wants him to play, he is her puppet and she is his master. He is her guinea pig and she is the scientist. He is no longer the master of the game, just one of the players. I salute this girl. Another big check. It is about time John Tekle must die. So as I declined her offer to join the Exes Club, I threw my empty cup in the trash bin with one hand while I checked my beeping phone on the other hand. It was a message from John Tekle,  as I started to read it to her, her phone also buzzed carrying the same message, including the exact typo comma before a full stop at the end of his message.

We laughed a lot, but I know it didn’t reach our hearts. No woman easily comes into terms with betrayal, big or small, but we accepted it with grace this time. As we exchanged our byes for that moment we promised to continue the conversation when she gets off work.

Late in the evening, however shed a different light on my decision to join the girls in the conference call they had prepared. The last thing I want to do is waste my time on a sleazy creature like him, and after examining my heart I found out that I was never emotionally involved while talking to ‘Wedi Tekle’, I am not about to get involved now. I texted her back saying I am not one of his exes for I never was in relationship with him to begin with. We were just friends. I advised her to collect her data as soon as possible without wasting her precious time and effort on him and to rush on writing her book or manual. I reminded her that I would always be her cheerleader and number one fan at the front row of her book signing event when she publishes a manual that exposes the dirty tricks and works of the Habesha John Tekle and his American cousin John Tucker. I concluded my message with a promise to write an article about her, the others and the fateful get together concluding my message with emoji of a hug and kisses.

I sat down at my favorite bistro in Harlem that overlooks a metro station entrance and opened my laptop. I love the atmosphere, the vibe and the activities near the entrance. I could feel my hands shaking with excitement to jot down the strange things that has unfolded earlier,  for a moment there, I thought my whole body was shaking with excitement but it was only from the effect of the vibration of the number 2 or 3 trains that was passing by.

I knew what I wanted to name the article, so I typed the headline  with bold, Georgia font and eighteen font size.

“John Tekle must die…..”

John Tekle must die

I am not easily impressed. However, anyone or anything for that matter, that possesses a strange, weird, unique or perhaps eccentric qualities intrigue and hook me without trying so much. I often fall in love with the ugly ducklings and befriend the outcasts, cheer the underdogs and read all the unpopular books in the shelves covered with dust. Strange occurrences, adventures and dramas unfolding in my life are almost an everyday happening. Perhaps because I welcome them with open hands. So getting the most strangest text from a strange woman one morning was not an epic incident to marvel about in my life.

The text goes like this:

“Fiammetta, you don’t know me but I do. This is my Facebook profile and I have sent you a request but please don’t add me yet. I want to tell you something before we become friends.”

All my curious cells were rushing and scrambling over like the rush on a Black Friday Sale when all the crazy shoppers abandon all the rules and senses of civility and bring forth their boorish human nature from the days of the jungles.  I was in a middle of a deadline but I couldn’t contain myself anymore and succumbed to the temptation of  a prospect of juicy gossip. Her profile picture was not unfamiliar to me,  I remembered hearing a story about her from someone and something told me it was the moment of truth and that she was about to drop a bomb and leave. I like a woman of such courage.

“I have heard about you. I hope all is well with you. Anything I can help with?” I typed back real quick; hoping, wishing and praying she would be free to talk and would sate my thirst for breaking news.  Sure enough, I can see her typing back.

“Can I call you now? May I have your number?” She texted back. I noticed her politeness, another check alongside her name.

I released a sigh of relief. Decided to take my coffee break as I typed down my number for her and headed to the door. But even the curious me had to count to three before I picked up the phone, I didn’t want to come off as desperate loony who welcomes talking to strangers.

She is a bundle of surprises, that woman, and a bit too friendly for my taste. Nevertheless, it seems that my weirdness has actually found a match. Another check mark.

She greeted me as if I were her best friend she just talked last night before she went to bed. Her nonchalance approach towards breaking the ice threw me off guard. I blinked several times before I could find my voice again. After filling me in about her day and the guy she is dating these days, which I thought was something you would talk about in an about two-months acquaintance or over, she jumped to the main subject of her call and the reason behind that weird and secretive message she sent me on my FB account.

I smiled.

I tried to frown for a second but I smiled. I kept on smiling till the guy behind the counter at the Starbucks thinks I am hitting on him. But he also would  be smiling if he were on the phone with this girl.

After narrating a helluva story that belittles one of the Danielle Steel’s books, no offense here, but I don’t read Danielle Steel. Well, in all fairness, I tried to read her books at one time as it seemed that every girl from Asmara has to read her book or she is un-dateble  or not considered a girl. I tried really hard to finish one of her books and proceeded to a second one but it felt like I was rereading the first book. It was too predictable and smells like a fiction. I mean I love books that make me forget their fictional nature and at the same time remind me of the reality in my nature. I almost gave up my passion for books because of this woman, not to mention my hope of dating. Dating wasn’t worth the hassle of reading Danielle Steel. Fiammetta, having a thin-layered patience,  gave up.

Getting back to the nitty-gritty,  I think I attract only the weirdos. No offense dear friends and acquaintances but it also has been said that ‘it takes one to know one’ and by deductive reasoning, you all are weirdos for befriending the epitome of weirdness-yours truly me; but I treasure your friendships with all the weirdness in me. After filling me  in with all the stories she heard from him about his previous relationships and the recent ones,  this newest weirdo in my life wants to meet all the women who have dated this guy and come up with a yellow page directory on how to avoid being one of his preys if I may choose the correct word.

Wait a minute. Did I hear her right? Did she propose to open ‘The Exes Club’? I choked on my Caramel Ribbon. I could feel all those crazy cells rushing back to their places, now that the Black Friday Sale is over they are getting ready for the Cyber Monday Sale.

She was giggling. I wiped my nose and mouth with a napkin as I tried to hold my drink with my left hand and sit on the stool in front of me.  She was still giggling. Maybe her ultimate dark goal is to kill me and erase everyone else who has dated this guy. They say love makes you do all the crazy things, like drinking a poison that is supposed to make you go into a deep sleep till your lover gallops over from the nearest city, or kill yourself with your sword because your lover is supposedly dead from a poison that sent her to a dreamland and conveniently the priest who orchestrated this whole drama was stuck in a traffic jam and forgot to text you or leave you a note that says, ‘Romeo, Juliet isn’t dead. She is actually sleeping. I will fill you in when we meet later on. So for now just wait by her side till she wakes up.”  This stupid love makes you jump into a conclusion and you end up doing all these things that are conceptually crazy.

I cleared my throat, to clear my head from the train of thoughts it was following and to stop her from her silly giggles. She apologized but I could tell she wasn’t really sorry. I smiled, this girl reminds me of someone from a very long time. I see my old self in her; not my future self but my past self……maybe she saw her future self in me.

“I have contacted two other girls, one from his previous relationship and one from his recent…..” She trailed in her sentence, I think she was contemplating her next words or questioning her unplanned and impulsive idea. “He used to tell me about you. Of course, he would omit some things and say you are a close friend.” Suddenly the cheerful girl was gone and she sounded a woman with deep scars.

It was my time to giggle now. Not because she was hurting but because I was very much close to becoming one of his preys. I giggled in thankfulness mingled with relief.  This caged bird has learned to soar and fly high.

“I was never his girl and I will never be his. I dislike men without any essence and sincerity.” I said between sips of my frappuccino. I have to finish my drink real quick and jump back to work. I had forgotten all about my work and stayed out longer than advisable.

To be continued……