A Court's Maim

بریخنا | Barekhna

Chapter 6.

"Sir there is someone here to meet you!" Zaryab knocked on the door, announcing his arrival with sharp words.

"Does this person have a name?" Aliyaar narrowed his eyes, he was not expecting anyone over for lunch.

"Yes sir. She asks to be addressed as Ms.Saleem. Insists that you know her." He explained.

"Oh!" Aliyaar bit back the smile that threatened to follow his words, "send her up, and cancel my meetings for the rest of the day."

"But—"

"No but's please. Do as you are asked."

"Of course sir!" Zaryab nodded, almost saluting at his authoritarian tone.

Aliyaar's fingers rubbed the top his forehead, massaging away the creases that deepened into frowns ninety percent of the way through his upper dermis. He stared out of the windows that overlooked the frayed roads covered in heavy traffic. Apart from the blue skies and the boiling heat that came at the end of May — merciless and without rain, not a single atom moved. The air was heavy with crackling dryness and burdening expectations. It was, like an open oven attached to them ; despite the anticipated showers of rain. Aliyaar was held captive behind the wide edges of his work desk — by his thoughts and the turns he did not take. The realizations that he could have done everything, better. Yet he had not.

Aliyaar fixed the lapels of his pinstriped suit. The white on navy was handpicked by his mother for him and the starchy blue shirt underneath a gift from his sister. Rough buttons sewn on top pinched his skin as he fixed them in place. His hand slid into the pockets of his trousers, his body moving towards the rack behind him. Wordlessly, his thoughts an avid companion of their own Aliyaar opened the glass cabinets and popped the deep roasted coffee pod into the machine. It's silent humming the only sound as he retrieved the box of Godiva chocolates. As if he worked only in monosyllabic manners, he did each chore with full attention. The numbers on his desktop screen crunched into points, red and green — back and forth as the stocks continued to shift around in circles. Heavy confusion regarding their budgeting for the season. Sugar cane production was at an all time low owing to the rain — their mills had less to burn and more to feed. Making sound decisions had been a job forced to him ; a right of birth. An honor most claimed.

What honor was there in your father's legacy writing your suicide note?

Sounds of the coffee steaming into the glass kettle were his savior. They kept the thoughts of her, and of the disaster he was from taking over. The lacquer shaded drink was hot, it's temperature fogged the inside of the container. Billions of minuscule droplets maximized around the top layer of the kettle, he could see his face clear on the fogged bottom. Aliyaar's eyes matched the drink at that moment, the golden from the sun that fell in at noon, painting both of them iridescent. Vaporizing into one large well he saw the tiny droplets. Himself in them. Secular identities, much like his. The tiniest drop left behind as the rest gravitated to the centre.

"Ahem!"

Barekhna coughed, staring at his back that filled out the suit, hoping he would turn. Seconds passed as she stepped inside, her leather handbag dropped on top of the table as she walked to him. She was surprised herself, that the sound of her thin heels and the throat choking scent of her Pear perfume did not win over his attention. Usually he was more than alert when she was around, to have found him lost in thought, with his face free of any signs — it was a delight.