Chapter 10: The Collar and the Cucumber
The ceasefire lasted three days.
It was a fragile, walking-on-eggshells peace. Zahra moved through the apartment like a careful ghost, speaking in soft tones, asking permission for things she used to just do. She left his tea outside his door in the morning. She didn’t comment when he took calls. The silence was thick, strained, but it was quiet. Amartya almost let himself believe it could work.
Then Katerina arrived for lunch.
She let herself in with the spare key Zahra had given her, a burst of cool air and charisma. “Hello, my dysfunctional little family!” she called out, dropping a canvas tote bag by the door. She wore paint-splattered overalls over a black tank top, her blonde hair twisted into a knot secured with a pencil. Katerina hugged Zahra, then gave Amartya a warm, one-armed squeeze. “I come bearing gossip and a terrible hunger. What’s cooking?”
“Kubba halab,” Zahra said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “The baked ones you like.”
“Perfect. You are an angel.” Katerina flopped onto the couch, stretching her legs. “Amartya, you look serious. Business bad?”
“No, business is good,” he said, forcing his usual cheer. It felt strange on his face now, like a shirt that didn’t fit right. “Just… logistics.”
“Logistics,” Katerina repeated, eyeing him, then Zahra’s stiff posture at the stove. “Right.”
Lunch was a surreal performance. Zahra was the picture of gracious hostess, filling plates with the golden, dome-shaped dumplings filled with spiced rice and minced vegetables. She laughed at Katerina’s stories about a difficult client, nodded in all the right places. But her attention was a laser on Amartya. Every time he spoke, her eyes flicked to him, studying his reaction. When he complimented the food, her smile was a little too wide, a little too relieved.
“So, Amartya,” Katerina said, swirling a kubba in yogurt. “Zahra told me you’ve been apartment hunting. Found anything?”
The air in the room solidified. Zahra’s fork screeched against her plate.
Amartya took a slow drink of water. “Just browsing. Keeping options open.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Zahra said, her voice light and deadly. “It was a misunderstanding. We fixed it.”
Katerina looked between them, her artist’s eyes missing nothing—the tension in Amartya’s shoulders, the possessive edge in Zahra’s claim. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, if you do need a change, my building has a vacancy. Top floor. Great light. I could put in a word.”
It was an innocent offer. A friendly gesture. But it was a rope thrown into a prison yard.
Zahra set her fork down. The careful composure began to crack, fine lines spreading from the edges. “Why would he need your building? He has a home. Here. With me. I take care of everything.”
“I know you do, azizti,” Katerina said, her tone careful now. “I’m just saying, as a friend—”
“As a friend, you should want him to be happy here. Not plant ideas in his head.” Zahra’s voice sharpened, losing its pleasant filter. “You don’t live here. You don’t know what we have.”
“I think I’m seeing what you have,” Katerina replied coolly, wiping her hands on a napkin.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re acting like he’s a souvenir you brought back from a trip, Zahra. Not a person.” Katerina stood, carrying her plate to the sink. “He can talk to his mother. He can look at apartments. Breathe, for God’s sake.”
Zahra shot to her feet, chair scraping violently. “You don’t understand! You with your easels and your freedom and your nothing. You have no idea what it is to build a home, to fight for it!”
“This isn’t a home, it’s a shrine! And you’re trying to make him the centerpiece!” Katerina shot back, her own temper flaring. “Look at him. He’s nineteen. He’s not your husband. He’s your roommate who wants to eat his lunch in peace without a psychological autopsy!”
The words hung, brutal and true. Zahra flinched as if slapped. Her furious gaze swung from Katerina to Amartya, who sat frozen, a spectator to his own life.
Then she crossed the distance between them in two swift steps. She cupped his face in her hands, her palms hot. Her eyes were wild, beseeching, drowning.
“Tell her,” Zahra demanded, her voice breaking. “Tell her this is where you want to be.”
“Zahra, don’t…” he started, trying to gently pull her hands away.
She didn’t let go. Instead, she kissed him.
It was not romantic. It was a claim. A desperate, forceful press of her lips against his, a bid to silence everything—Katerina’s words, his mother’s calls, the whole world outside their door. He tasted the salt of her tears and the sharpness of the spices from lunch. He went rigid, hands gripping the edge of his chair.
Katerina let out a soft, disgusted breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Zahra broke the kiss, her breathing ragged, still holding his face. “See?” she whispered, her eyes searching his for validation. “See?”
Amartya pushed her hands away, standing up so quickly his chair tipped over backwards with a clatter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a visceral, rejecting motion. “No.”
The single word extinguished the frantic fire in her eyes, leaving only ash.
“I’m done,” Katerina said, grabbing her bag. “This is beyond me. Zahra, you need help. Real help.” She looked at Amartya with pure pity. “Call about that apartment. Top floor. Ask for Marco.” She left, shutting the door with a quiet, definitive click.
The silence after was absolute, a vacuum.
Amartya righted his chair. He didn’t look at Zahra. He walked to the bedroom, picked up his laptop, and brought it back to the living room. He sat on the couch, opened it, and navigated directly to the real estate website. He typed in Katerina’s neighborhood. He clicked on a listing. He started filling out an inquiry form.
Zahra watched from the kitchen doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done last week,” he said, his voice flat. His fingers tapped the keys, firm and final.
“No. Please, no.” The tears started then, not the angry ones from before, but a quiet, hopeless river. “You said a warning. You gave me a warning. I’m listening now. I am.”
“The warning was before you kissed me to win an argument.” He didn’t look up. “Before you used me like a… a prop. The warning’s over.”
He found the contact for the building manager, Marco. He dialed. He scheduled a viewing for two hours from now.
With each action, Zahra crumpled further. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, her whole body shaking with silent sobs. “Don’t go. Please, Amartya. I’ll disappear. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be nothing. Just don’t leave me here alone.”
He stood, closing the laptop. He needed a shirt, his wallet, his keys. He walked toward the bedroom. She scrambled up, stumbling after him, and in the narrow hallway, she grabbed him from behind, her arms locking around his waist, her face pressed into his back.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she chanted into the fabric of his t-shirt, her hold impossibly strong. “You can’t go. You can’t.”
He tried to gently pry her arms loose, but she was a vise. “Zahra. Let go.”
“No.”
“Let go, or I will call someone to make you let go.” He meant it. The resolve in his voice finally pierced her hysteria.
Her grip loosened, just enough for him to turn. She collapsed against his chest, her crying now loud and ragged, utterly broken. She was all clinging hands and desperate, damp breaths, a shipwreck personified. He stood there, trapped in her embrace, feeling the violent tremor of her grief, knowing he was its source and the only thing she thought could cure it.
He didn’t hug her back. He just stood, waiting for the storm to pass, his eyes on the front door, already mapping his exit. The keys felt heavy in his pocket. In two hours, he would see the new apartment. The thought was a clean, cold stone in the middle of all this suffocating heat.
He didn’t know how he would get her off of him to walk out, only that he would.