Life

Ha ha ha, my blanket. My blanket.

She was still laughing to herself when Omar, her husband of nine forgettable years, called for her.

Yarmilla! The high-pitched sound of his voice pierced the mosquito netting of the mobile home Omar, Yarmilla, Shariff and a girl had rented, with money from Omar's father, who'd obtained the liquidity one way or another.

Yarmilla!

Yar- Omar's bugle-like cry for the attention of the woman in his mobile home was drowned. Yarmilla had had enough.

Shariff was eight. His life, he felt - there was no point in addressing his life. This was his life.

On the front, porch-like facade of the home, the girl played with her imaginary friend, X. One day, she and X would be neighbors, and the screams from their respective houses would mesh, in a cacophony of life; like crickets in the morning, all and at the same time.

Her blanket. She loved that blanket and had been looking for it (everywhere).