July 17, 2013
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It's midnight here in London,
and Ya Allah, the weather is
just sweltering. I can't sleep.
There's a courtyard outside our
family apartment unit here,
one-fourth of the Great West
Quarter's infamous quads.
As I sit here by the bay window,
praying for a little bit of breeze,
I realise that in the courtyard
below a man and a woman sit
crosslegged on the steps, smoking.
Their voices carry over by the still
night air, directly to where I sit.
"… it's just mental."
"Are you alright then?"
"…(muttering)… and my dad."
"That's wrong, mate."
"I TOLD THEM!" (loudly)
The woman places her hand
on the man's arm. "Shhh."
And as if on cue, they look up.
At my block, my window. At me.
The man holds his hand up, almost
apologetically, as if to say "Hey, sorry."
I hold up an OK sign in return.
It's fine, bruv. Whatever it is,
I'm pretty sure it's more serious
than this heatwave I'm experiencing.
Your almost-outburst is acceptable.
Go easy on the cigarettes, though.
That's your fourth stick by my count.
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