We hadn’t seen much of Tarek, our alcohol raddled office manager, when suddenly Angie got a long and woeful text from him declaring he had resigned. Again. This was followed by the usual half-articulate ramblings about being in love with her, ‘Miss Angie, you are my sister, I love only you, marry me.’  We thought this was the just the normal office soap-opera, but then the Head of HR confirmed that indeed Tarek had resigned. Wallah! The next thing, a post-it on Angie’s office door.  How many times I’ve longed to write a resignation note like it.  So, that was it, no more Tarek, with just ‘Bye boss, I quit’.

It was the weekend, so I took a trip to a fishing village in the north.  Such a relief to be by the sea and out of the city.  The red dust had arrived and the mercury had hit 48 degrees.  Everything blistered.   The city had been choking for three weeks since the Al Shamal wind screamed into town, and had been tearing at the skyscrapers with its gritty nails ever since.  A Biblical forty days and nights of this storm were promised.  The sky was gone.  You could hardly stand outside and it was  little better inside, as the wind wailed through my apartment, and everything was plastered in red dust.

Up north though there was no dust, only clean skies and a turquoise sea.  The fishing village bobbed with cherry striped boats and their winking eyes to keep evil at bay. Fishing baskets lined the dock, a massive sea-spider’s web. I wanted to just stay and let my toes trail in the Gulf.   The security guard at my apartment tower earlier had looked at me darkly, looked at the car, wrote something down and then looked at his watch and noted something else down. I got in a car, with a man. Eyes everywhere, not just on the fishing boats, never quitting.


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