“that evening, I climbed the stairs and walked into Baba’s smoking room, in my hands the two sheets of paper on which I had scribbled the story.
“whats it Amir? “ Baba said…his glare made my throat feel dry. I cleared it and told him I ‘ve written a story. Baba nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than a feighned interest. “well, that’s very good, isn’t it?” he said. then nothing more. He just looked at me through the cloud of smoke.
I probably stood there for under a minute, but to this day, it was one of the longest minutes of my life. Seconds plodded by, each separated from the next by an eternity.
No comments:
Post a Comment