Read I Think of You: Stories for Free Online Page A

the only one along the north side. Pretty, in five stories of reddish brown and beige, it had looked over the garden. Now it was flanked by tall apartment blocks and so stood diminished, looking bleakly out over the dusty road and the Pepsi-Cola kiosk that had sprung up on the pavement in front of it.
    Aisha looked around for a place to park. There were no trees to cast any shade and one side of the road was much like the other. She pulled the car over to what used to be the curb and stepped out into a sand heap. She shook the sand from her shoes. The curious heads hanging out of windows were still there, but now a number of them were covered in the white Islamic headdress that was spreading so rapidly. Did they belong to the same people as six years ago? Or different? Younger sisters, perhaps, daughters? Out of the corner of her eye she could not tell. Ignoring them, as she had always done, she walked purposefully in.
    The tall glass doors were still there. Miraculously they had not yet been broken. The marble-floored lobby was clean, but
    there were no plants in the pots and there were cigarette ends on the dry, cracked earth. A strange man in a striped galabiya was sweeping the marble floor. She wished him good day. He answered sullenly, leaning on his broom, waiting for her to pass.
    “Are you the doorman here now?” she asked.
    “God willing,” he replied briefly.
    “Where are Abdu and Amna?” she persevered.
    “Abdu? They took him into the army long ago. And Amna has gone to live with her folk in the village.”
    “Oh.”
    She started climbing the stairs. She wanted to ask more. Had Abdu and Amna finally had their much-desired baby? Or were they still barren? What had Abdu done about learning to read? They had been incorporated into her dream of coming home, these two. She had even gone down to Mothercare and looked for Babygros for Amna’s longed-for child.
    Repeatedly she had imagined in detail the scene of her homecoming. It would be the beginning of the academic year, a warm October day. She would drive up to this door with Saif. Abdu would jump up and come running out, wearing his broad grin and his white peasant’s underwear, his eyes and teeth shining in his dark face, crying, “Praise God for your safe return, Sitt Aisha!” He would grab her hand and try to kiss it while she protested and insisted on shaking his hand. “How are you, Abdu? How are you doing? And how is Amna?” And hearing the noise, Amna would look out from the room below the stairs and, seeing her, come out tyingher colored kerchief around her hair, her slow, shy smile spreading over her pretty face. And she too would praise God for her safe return and ask, “Have you come to stay with us for good now?” And when Aisha answered yes, Amna would say, “You fill the house with light.” They would carry her cases upstairs. They would all have to make two journeys because there would be a lot of luggage after such a long stay abroad. Later, she would unpack and come down to give Abdu and Amna their presents: for Amna a dress length of brightly patterned synthetic material with the trimmings and buttons to match, and for Abdu a watch. And if there should be a child …
    She had arrived at her floor. The passage was dark. The old worn-out key was ready in her hand, but she could not see the keyhole. She reached out blindly and the key immediately fitted into the lock. Is it coincidence? she wondered. Did I just happen to find the lock? Or does my hand remember? She turned the key. It was a little stiff but the door opened. She felt a surge of irritation. Typical. Going away for two weeks and not bothering to double-lock the door. Then she remembered. It’s nothing to do with me.
    She pushed the door open and a forgotten but familiar smell met her. She stood still. It couldn’t be. She had always thought it was the smell of fresh paint and that as the flat grew older it would vanish. For the year that they had lived in the flat it had