ANARCHISTALES

1 Hour Ago

In the bus maintenance garage at the terminal, a man in greasy overalls emerged from beneath one of the vehicles. He hastily stripped off his work clothes and cast them aside. Washing his hands and face in a hurry, he scanned the surroundings before slipping into the crowd.

In front of an empty platform, his eyes locked with a young woman’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest. The man closed his eyelids, giving a silent “all set” signal; with a trace of sorrow, she nodded in agreement. Passing through the knot of smoking passengers and randomly left luggage, the man entered the terminal building and dissolved into the crowd.

*

“Dear passengers, ten minutes remain until your bus departs. Please take your seats in the vehicle…”

“Shall we board?” asks Kamuran.

I nod in agreement. Flicking the cigarette butt pinched between my fingers toward the steward loading luggage, I politely step aside with my left hand to yield the way for Kamuran. On the steps, Kamuran greets the hostess with a brief nod. An endearing, freckled girl with a long red ponytail, a red vest, a starched white shirt, and a navy skirt. Her name tag reads Sebahat.

“Welcome aboard. We wish you a pleasant journey.”

“How old are you, Sebahat?”

“Twenty,” she replies with a smile trying to conceal her surprise.

“You’re in the spring of your life, how lovely. Spring is March, Sebahat. It begins beautifully—you blossom, you bask in the sun, and suddenly a harsh winter strikes. You are in the March of your life, Sebahat.”

“Chao! Aren’t you coming?”

“Coming, my miracle.”

Startled by my words, Sebahat averts her eyes. I move to my seat. Kamuran is by the window—slouched with her knee propped against the seat ahead. Her right elbow rests on the armrest, her fist tucked beneath her chin. In her lap, held by her left hand, is a book: Mortal Lovers Hotel. She stares outside with dead eyes. I pull my phone and a small remote control from my coat pocket, then stuff the coat into the overhead compartment.

“What were you talking about?” Her face is sour.

“We were talking about the seasons. Jealous?”

“Maybe. We have fifteen minutes left. I want to rest my head on your lap.”

“Let’s take a picture first, my love,” I say.

We look into the camera. Two frames of misery. We come out looking like two strangers huddled together, but in the end, we are set.

I sit beside her. Her head is on my lap, my hand in her hair. I stroke it gently.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

“Not when I’m with you,” she says.

Suddenly, the bus begins to shake to chants of “Our soldier is the greatest soldier!” To understand this ecstasy displayed when sending someone off to death, one need only look at the Feast of Sacrifice. The animal’s throat is slit, and everyone celebrates. The animal is adorned with henna, and so is the soldier… This is the joy of not being the victim oneself, not the pride of a sacred duty.

“Your vehicle’s departure time has arrived. Please clear the platforms.”

Sebahat counts the passengers on the bus and gives a thumbs-up to the captain.

Rolling out of the terminal garage, the bus leaves the city traffic behind and begins climbing the mountain passes. My ears pop from the change in pressure. Sebahat pushes the service cart down the aisle. Kamuran plays with my beard; I play with her hair. We love this serenity. Fermented in conflicts and a persistent inability to come together, our love needs this quiet. Our eyes meet.

“We’re close, my miracle,” I say.

“Would you like something to drink?” Sebahat asks.

Raising herself slightly from my lap to look curiously at the cart, Kamuran asks for a cola; I ask for black coffee. I take a pack of crackers and open it. Sebahat continues her service.

“Do you love me?” Kamuran asks.

The time has come.

“So much,” I say. “More than anything.”

I press the button on the remote control in my pocket. The carbon monoxide that should be vented through the exhaust begins to seep through the vehicle’s air vents, filling the cabin.

“I love you so much too, Chao…”

They fall asleep quickly. Kamuran on my lap, the driver at the wheel. Within seconds, the guardrails shatter.

We fly into death.