Wandering words

The rain covers the café windows. In that authentic atmosphere, there was something rare in the air. Smoke not only from cigarettes, floating in the air and giving a yellowish hue to the dark atmosphere and to the old Buka lady’s leather skin that is like parchment. Sitting at the next table, I share her window. Today I see her closely wearing, as she never did before, black silk and a tattered ribbon caught from the depths of an old clothes box, infused with a perfume scent of violet sweets in her Arabness. Through new glasses, Mrs. Buka contemplates the rain hitting the gates of the still station. Miss does not come from the station: she does not enter as she appears, like a puff of smoke or rain. She sits at Mrs. Buka’s table, leaning forward, squeezing the old woman’s hands. She has ash-colored hair and, like Mrs. Buka, she is small and slim. I hear her whisper, or I think I hear: “I am here.” Mrs. Buka, confused, pulls her hands away and asks: “Did you also resign?” The new arrival slightly moves her head, murmuring: “It’s been years, but I am here.” Dona Buka murmured: “We women who have resigned are treated badly.” The woman speaks, her voice like a thread, and says: “Now I am not alone.” Mrs. Buka: “Do you have children? I have a daughter, only one left, living far from here.” Pointing to the station, as if revealing a secret, she says: “She will come, today or tomorrow.” That woman turns her head, and I meet her gaze. She lowers her eyes.