SATURDAY 2AM – JAMEEL RAFIQThe sound in my ears is like heavy traffic rushing through a tunnel. I can see my wife's lips moving but my brain refuses to acknowledge that she is speaking. It takes all my concentration to banish my train of thought and look at her, and when I do, my anger rises up once again.
Farida is sitting opposite me, the coffee table a welcome barrier between us. She clings to a rumpled tissue in the palm of her hand, the same one that she has been holding for hours. I notice that her red nail polish is chipped from where she's been nibbling at her stubby fingers. Nothing about my wife is appealing any more. Her mouth is still opening and closing, up and down like a fish, and this time I cannot help but listen to the words that are tumbling out in a torrent of emotion.
