AN HONEST CONVERSATION

“Why do you stand like that, sir?” the curious woman asked. Her intonation peaked at “why” then plummeted afterward. Her appearance was rather meek—ragged clothes on soft, brown skin. She could not be older than the man, who stood in an odd, awkward manner, leaning heavily to one side against a cane that she could not see. The woman had a basket filled to the brim with freshly dried clothes in her lap, clothes which she had been quietly sorting until this moment. In deciding to break the silence, her voice startled the younger man.

“I don’t do it deliberately, now,” his tone curt and annoyed. He wore sweatpants and a hoodie, concealing a powerful build except for the crippled leg that leaned against the cane. The light within the building was dim, shining faintly upon the man’s hooded face, casting a shadow that stretched along the ground before him.

“Well, I didn’t think that, dummy,” she replied in an equally tiresome voice. “I was just tryna get somethin’ outta you, bein’ that we’re the only two here.” Her voice softened as she spoke, her tone verily itching at the man’s brain. She sensed his disregard but still decided to press on. “Y’know, my papa said that it’s quite rude to ignore a lady’s honest curiosity,” she added, more convicted.

The man stood silently, debating whether or not to engage with the woman’s prodding. As he deliberated, a soft tapping began—his able foot rising and falling against the floor. The tapping had a rhythm to it, and juxtaposed against the lazy attire he wore, his boots seemed distinctly out of place. Steel-toed and covered in burn marks and lacerations, the old leather marked wear, history, and hardship. Yet, the woman was still more intrigued by the shadowed face beneath the hood.

“If yer so curious, then,” he finally spoke, his voice gravelly as he turned his entire body to face her. As he did, the lame leg clothed in sweatpants dragged along the ground, his cane serving as a less effective, secondary limb. The woman gasped, her right hand moving to cover her mouth. Her blue eyes moved up and down his body, fixating on the cane and then his obscured face. His face that she still couldn’t see, the darkness refusing to relinquish it. Her cheeks reddened, hidden by her hand.

“I—uh, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to be rude,” she stammered, a slight tinge of fear creeping into her voice.

“Mmm, no worries. I don’t suspect ya knew any better,” the man replied, his voice devoid of any particular feeling. Though his face remained hidden beneath the hood, his beard was visible, slowly escaping from the fabric’s cover. The tapping of his foot ceased, replaced by the steady, rhythmic drumming of the washing machine behind him, its cadence similar to his boot’s.

Hesitation held the woman in place. She wanted to ask more, but an instinct told her to stop. Yet there was an itch that wouldn’t leave her, pushing her curiosity forward despite herself.

“How did that come to happen?” she finally asked, her hand returning to the clothes in her lap. The clothes began to wrinkle as she spoke, her attention now firmly elsewhere.

The man hesitated, deliberation written in his silence. He wondered whether to give her the truth or an easy, forgettable lie. The woman interrupted, timidly but insistently, adding:

“If you don’t mind tellin’, that is...” Her voice wavered from fear of crossing a line that should not be crossed.

“I’m a vet’ren, fought in Fallujah,” he finally said, his southern drawl unmistakable. There was a weight in his words, a depth to each syllable, as if each one carried something of the battlefield within it. “I was an infantryman. Headed a small taskforce sent to take out some enemies. Took a few bullets in the process. Left and right leg, but the left took the brunt, as ya can see. Irreparable nerve damage is what left me limpin’.”

He paused, as if expecting some response, but the woman remained silent, listening intently.

“It was me, mah brother, and a few others in the squad. I decided we’d enter from the south. E’rything went smoothly at first, which shoulda been the first sign somethin’ wasn’t right.” His voice grew heavier, words weighted by memory. “Turns out some zealots had been tailin’ us, waitin’. By the time I knew, it was too late—my brother, a couple of the others... they were shot.”

He took in a breath, the air felt harsh. “Managed to fight our way out, but only me and one other survived. That was my last op. They sent me home. Next week, we had the funeral fer mah brother.” He looked down at the cane. “Funny enough, mah brother’s in this cane.”

The man’s voice had grown quiet, lacking the vigor of annoyance it had initially carried. Though he didn’t wish to recount this story, the intensity of the woman’s curiosity had compelled him to do so. The woman grew pale as he spoke, her face losing its color as the story continued. Though his account lacked explicit details, it was enough to stir a dissonance that weighed on her spirit. The desire to ask more vanished.

“I’m... I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, her voice timid, almost a whisper. “B-but thank you for your service, sir!”

The man merely nodded in acknowledgment, having nothing more to say. He turned away, resuming his original stance. His mind drifted to the rhythm of the washing machine. Slowly, the real world faded from his attention.

The drumming became the rapid-fire of a machine gun, the dim light replaced by the bright sun of Fallujah. The cacophony of the battlefield filled his ears, the world narrowing to that single moment, eyes shut against the terror that still lived within him. He was never truly at peace. The woman, unaware of his struggle, softly hummed the Maqam to herself.