those damn wheat biscuits

chapter 2: elevators

the first time i spoke to tom he didn't hear me.

the community mailroom was in my building, a floor above my flat and so i frequently bumped into the people i watched from my window. it was how i met ada and later, it was how i met tom. 

i had a stained sweater on paired with baggy pants and an oversized coat dusted with lint. i had a pair of sunglasses on to cover my eyebags along with a heavy backpack filled with my notes. i hadn't even brushed my teeth that morning but thankfully, had the courtesy of eating a buttered toast with peppermint tea. 

my hair was short back then, up to my jaw. the only style i wore them in was a part through the middle and some hair tucked behind my ear. i cut my tresses off during a night of intense loneliness accompanied by the harrowing feeling of imposter syndrome. 

i had pulled the scissors out of my stitching box and savagely torn through my mope of hair with my heart beating like a drum between my ribs. 

i was playing a losing game, tom (bravely) reminded me of that. 

there was tension in our elevator as it descended. his hands were filled with packages and mine were stuffed in the pockets of my pants. i wasn't expecting him to say anything and yet:

"quite a lot of floors on this thing." 

it didn't make much sense to me at first and i doubt he knew what he meant by that. there was an urgency in his voice like if he didn't say anything now he wouldn't get the chance to again.

"yeah." 

i was almost shocked at how nervous i sounded. my shoulders stiff, goofy smile with furrowed eyebrows of uncertainty. it was hilarious how calm i was in my head and how damsel-y i was being in front of him. 

"i'm tom, i just moved here,"

i know "haifa, welcome to the building." i knew he lived in the other building but i didn't want him to catch onto the fact i knew where he lived.

"haifa," he tested out my name with his mouth, "are you arabic?"

"no i'm not quite a language," i shrugged. it was a silly joke that flew over his head. 

"sorry?" the doors of the elevators spread open and we stepped out. 

"no i'm not arabic," i pushed open the door with my back, hands still stuffed in my pockets, "but i'll tell you all about me at dinner." 

to my surprise, i didn't say much about myself at dinner, tom had a lot to say anyway. we had met the same evening downtown at a cafe close to his workplace. it was stupid of him -- bringing a stranger so close to where he spent most of his day. 

"what do you do?" i couldn't help but ask. 

"investment banking, i work for a firm." 

"wow ... and what's a day at work like?" i sounded like christiane amanpour.

we spent most of the dinner like that, tom really enjoyed talking about work and i somewhat enjoyed listening. it was what i was used to doing or for the most part forced myself to do. 

during our walk back home we discussed work ethics and how poorly people were treated outside and even inside white-collar jobs. he was quite passionate about reform -- of everything and for a minute i thought he'd made a mistake with choosing his career. 

tom was too morally in check to be in finance -- even he knew that. 

so it made sense why tom hated his boss. he never showed it but i could hear it in his words. 

the first time i met his boss was at his funeral. the old man had shown up with tom's coworker and sat three rows from the front while i sat in the back, hiding from tom's family. i resented his boss for many things, for making him work long hours, for embarrassing him during meetings and for sending him home late that night but i hated him most for being able to be there at his funeral and mourn with tom's loved ones. 

i hated him for speaking at tom's funeral while i couldn't. i hated him for making me listen to his pathetic meaningless speech about how hardworking tom was while i couldn't tell tom's mother how much he spoke about her. 

i was a ghost in tom's life. 

tom had sent me a text that night which read: "i really enjoyed our time together. i really enjoyed you being impulsive about 'the holding of hands'. it was the first date for the both of us and i could never imagine me forgetting this day"

i was truly damned. 

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--2/11/21