In the Literary Beetroot Café, among organic date muffins and
passionfruit shots, my Jordanian friend recounts how his ex-wife met
another psych patient on her latest trip to the suicide ward and now
this guy has moved in and goes to the bathroom in front of the kids.
I sip my skinny soy latte and say, so that gives you better odds for
custody, right?
His face is closed to comfort as it was when he told me two stories to
show why he would never return to Jordan:
- The policeguy kicked the man he had turned into meat out of the way
with his blood-smeared boot so my friend could sit down to finish his
cuppa.
- Ambulances drove past the bus scene, but my friend begged a looter
to help him in exchange for his gold watch, which was why he lived
when the other nine passengers died.
I’m not guilty of gourmet muffins or the Middle East or paedophiles, oh sure,
But of just paying for my friend’s undrunk coffee, of doing nothing more.
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