i arrive in my new flat two minutes after 7.00 in the evening with my belongings squashed into a single suitcase, my keys in my left hand, and my dignity (along with a piece of 5 day old chewing gum) on the bottom of my shoe.
the terrorist sex-slave (who i have encountered once before today only as a cut out picture from the housing section of a newspaper) and i are the only ones in the room. she - or as i will later be corrected through gritted teeth - they are seated in the corner of the room on an armchair that reminds me of my south african grandmother who lives in egypt. golden skin against golden embroidery.
they are wearing headphones connected to a laptop which they watch with furrowed eyebrows, muttering something under their breathe. they're probably listening to kendrick lamar or isis. or whatever else it is that arabs listen to.
i let them be and walk past the arm-chair, through a slightly ajar door that reveals a space akin to a bedroom.
the room is tightly packed, like my feelings. it's skeleton made up of four walls, two single beds, and a bookshelf that doesn't let the door shut fully. everything is still bare, save for the qur'an on the bed furthest from me and closest to both the radiator and the window.
great. i'm sharing a room with a bloody religious zealot. maybe, if i'm lucky, she'll save me from the sins of my bisexuality.
i look away from the holy book, drop my suitcase next to my newly claimed bed, and don't bother unpacking. that is a job for later. i do check my phone. it's on 23% battery charge and there is a single text from my mum that reads: cheri. come home. mo and i miss you.
lies.
i find an outlet, sandwiched between my bed and the arab's, and put my phone to charge before i leave the room.
i re-enter the living room. the arab is still seated on the armchair. it looks like they're watching a movie but it could just be a beheading.
across the room is an open kitchen space that i make my way to. behind a marble table top is the fridge. i open it, reach inside for a carton of orange juice, and drink from the box - spilling some down my blouse.
the door unlocks then, for the second time this evening, and in comes none other than otto and his ratchet white boy, both of them holding bags of what looks to be a takeaway. chinese?
the arab lowers the headphones from their ears onto the nape of their neck, but other than that doesn't not acknowledge the new arrivals. i choke on my orange juice, drop it on the countertop, then burp (awkwardly).
the two boys look in my directions.
otto: "oh."
ratchet white boy: "oh."
me: *swallows another awkward burp*
otto: "so you really are moving in after all."
me: *rolls my eyes*
ratchet white boy: "has it just been the both of you here this whole evening then?"
me: "yeah it's just been me and her."
something shifts in the corner of the room and we all look in the direction of the arab. their eyes are on me. molten gold.
arab: "them."
me (confused): "what?"
arab: "me and them. my pronouns are they/them."
me: "oh."
oh.
♡
Don't ask me what this is. I have no idea.
Also yes. Cheri is black and racist. It's possible.
