She walks alone to work, as she does every day, but today a young Arab man adjusts his stride to hers, speaks to her in Arabic and then in French, and then speeds up and disappears. Did she hear the word Palestine?
She ignores the beggars who ask for alms, as she does every day, but this one curses her. She picks up her pace.
At ten sharp, give or take five minutes, she drinks her coffee and eats her croissant and returns to her office, but today a colleague stops her and thanks her. She looks puzzled. Haven’t I told you this before, the friend asks. Thanks for having the courage to take up for our rights. But I was just saying the truth, she says and walks away.
She works, as she does every day.
She gives her desk a last glance before leaving the office, as she does every day, but today she finds an envelope with her name on it. She opens it and looks at the VIP invitation to attend a lecture. The subject is Palestinian, the speaker American, the invitation Anonymous. Curiouser and curiouser.
She walks back alone from work, as she does every day, and waits at an intersection to cross the street. The man to her right yells at the man to her left. She is chagrined. The man to her right assures her that he is not yelling at Her but at Him, because "Philomena killed her husband and that is life". The light changes from red to green. People start walking and so does she. The man to her right leans over and puts his arms around her shoulder and places his beard gently against her cheek and tells her that he loves her and then disappears. The stench of stale alcohol and homelessness clings to her nostrils.
She ignores the beggars, as she does every day, but this one doesn’t curse her. Instead, he says: you look sexy today.
She opens her front door, as she does every day, kicks off her shoes and turns on the TV. Two Israeli soldiers get quartered by a Palestinian mob. Several Palestinian targets get blasted by Israeli weapons. Many people die. Who is who, she wonders.
She grabs a bite, as she does every day, brushes her teeth and prepares to go out again.
She reaches the appointed place on time, as she does every day, and presents her VIP invitation at the gate. They escort her to the front row where friendly faces greet her.
First a young woman speaks, then a young man, then a presenter and then a speaker, as is done every day.
The speaker asks for a minute of silence, as is done every day, for the Israeli soldiers who were quartered. And for the Palestinians who died that day. And for the Americans whose ship was torpedoed. And for the Arabs and Others who have died in the last fortnight. And for, and for, and so on.
Then the speaker speaks, as is done every day, and the audience weeps, and laughs and claps and questions and answers and vows not to let that happen again, ever again.
The crowds disperse and she gets up, as she does every day, and walks out of the auditorium into the cold night air. The street is quiet. The beggars and the cursers and the flatterers and the homeless and the manic young men have all gone away.
Back home, she looks out the window, as she does every day, before drawing the curtains and slipping into her warm bed. The moon stares back, full and round, surrounded by a string of stars.
Friday the 13th, and a full moon at that, she sighs, and pulls the cover up to her chin as she does every day, secure in the knowledge that her home is her castle, that she is its lone chatelaine and that the world outside is mad, mad, mad.
THE END