Four Broken Strings

Chapter 6 | THE BIRTHDAY CADENCE

  Copyright © 2018 by Rubab Masuri. All Rights Reserved.

FEBRUARY 15, 2017

I can't help smiling in my car. The radio is playing my song. The first-ever I recorded. Not that I would call it my song. Because I don't reckon people listening to the radio would know or care about the parts I played but the feeling is exhilarating. The sound of the rainstick and my innovative finger percussion on the Kabir's desk that I insisted we put in because it created such an amazing texture. And if you're thinking it's easy for me to tell him to do that, you're mistaken. He is a concrete wall when it comes to taking unbidden suggestions.

My lips are curved upward even when my usual parking has been taken and I have to parallel park across the pavement which is not really about preference, it's a matter of hate and pure detest. I am still smiling as I enter the elevator and exit (imagine), and in front of the floor cat (not that it matters). I greet Paula ebulliently and now I could finally let out the chuckle stuck in my gut as I step into the studio, if Kabir was not laying on the sofa and snoring. I mean I can still be happy and laugh, I don't think he would notice –although I do, that Kabir has a change of clothes from last night, that is both trendy and seem to be tailored to fit. The look is complete with a hat that is currently being used as a mask to block light to facilitate his peaceful repose.

I peruse the desk, which has a note for me of all the things to be done during the day. I need a memory stick to copy the files we are working on, so I begin to do some digging in the drawers to find one. Drawer number two is stuck. I give it a light jerk. I get hold of a drumstick and shove it inside the drawer to shift the hindrance-causing object. Doesn't work. I exert some more pressure hoping to lurch it out. It does, but not halfway like it should, but popping all the way out on the floor with a moment of loud furor. Enough to wake Kabir up.

"Hi," he mutters voice still heavy from sleep.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," I say putting the drawer back into the desk, its contents sprayed on the floor, where I move next. Paper clips, wires, unidentifiable junk, used sticky notes, dysfunctional scissors, and a grey button bound enveloped folder. I cup my hands and gather as much stuff as I can and start putting it back in the drawer.

Kabir bends down to collect the papers that have skidded out from the envelope folder. I squat to help him, and get a peek of an old picture of a couple (fairly good-looking) holding a baby. I can't peek at anything else because he picks the folder up, buttons it up, and carefully puts it inside the drawer with a guarded expression. I apologize for dropping it open and he says it's okay but the look on his face suggests completely otherwise. A little huffed.

"So what are you wearing tonight?"

It is almost obvious that he is asking me a question to take my mind off of his button folder. Even if he isn't, I mean he is, but let's say if he isn't, let me tell you, that would be the last thing on my mind. Why should I bother about some personal photographs in an office drawer?

"Is that an actual question?" I ask

He looks at me sideways and there's a moment where we both evaluate each other.

"Yeah," he says. An unsure look on his face like mine and we have no idea where this conversation is going.

Since I never expected him to ask me anything like that, I had no preparatory reply at disposal. I find myself not really speaking anything despite trying my mind, so now I just hope he forgets he ever asked me anything and the question disappears like the air between us.

"Well?" he asks again.

Oh, he's serious.

"I haven't actually given it a thought." I find it best to adhere to honesty sometimes.