On Thursday afternoons, Gita would go straight from work to Mahmoud’s place. Mahmoud was usually at a café with his friends around that time. Sometimes Gita would go to the café and hang out with Mahmoud and his friends, and some days she just wanted to stay home. She liked Mahmoud’s house. She’d go there, put the kettle on. She’d gather the glasses that had been left out on the tables all week with dried tea and coffee at the bottom, and put them in the sink. She’d pick up the books from the floor and put them on the bookshelf. She was really happy that her boyfriend was a reader and knew how to share his thoughts well.

One Thursday, when Gita got to the house, she had a really bad headache. She called Mahmoud and said, “Honey, when are you coming?” Mahmoud said, “I’m coming.” Gita put the kettle on and thought about making some food. She checked the fridge. There was nothing except a few rotten oranges and a jar of orange paste. She thought about ordering something online or going out to buy groceries. She got a piece of paper and wrote a to-do list for Mahmoud’s house. Next to some tasks, she wrote “G” which meant Gita. Like changing the clock battery or wiping the TV stand. She took a picture of the list and sent it to Mahmoud. After half an hour, Mahmoud wrote, “What’s this?” Gita wrote, “Our to-do list.” Mahmoud liked it. Gita made tea and got under the blanket. She was scared the kettle would burn down Mahmoud’s house, so she couldn’t sleep and just tossed and turned. Around seven, she texted Mahmoud, “You’re not coming? I want to order dinner.” Mahmoud wrote, “Look, I got invited to a guys’ party tonight. Is it okay if I go?” Gita wrote, “Is it okay if you don’t? I’ve been alone for four hours.” Mahmoud said, “Okay babe, I’m coming to you.” At eight, Gita ordered a basket of yogurt, cheese, and bread. She grabbed one of Mahmoud’s cigarettes and leaned against the radiator. She was still alone.