When he has something on his mind, something that can’t be brushed away, lodged like an airborne seed in the soft tissue of his conscience, he stirs the loose leaves in his pot of tea.
And he repeats his worry to himself.
And Salina watches him .
She watches the delicate movement of his callused fingers, the rotation of the silver spoon, carefully polished, glinting in the hot water, which is now deep brown.
Particles are seeping into it from the sodden, whirling leaves, and they carry his worry with them.
She doesn’t see it that way though.
Suddenly, across the courtyard, in one of the flats opposite, a window is pushed open by an unseen hand.
The glass catches the sun and the light is thrown into Kemal’s living room.
Onto the faded easy chair.
Across the crowded wall.
Through the glass of the teapot and into the crowded water.
Making it briefly golden.
And if he were to drink it, it would be bitter.
Eventually the water will cool and be still.
And Kemal will ease himself into his chair.