#rudan

Steely’s hands are shaking, just as they had been for most of the night. She is in desperate, clawing, agonizing need for a smoke. Her wallet sits neglected and forlorn on the table in her apartment, for there is always the option of seduction ( an option that local clerks seem privy to, yet she is never denied ). All things trace back to her hands - even if she does swindle a stranger out of a pack, she would be physically unable to hold the container, much less any individual cigarette.

One way or another, she unfailingly returns to the duplex. It is its phantasm that consistently leaves her so thoroughly stricken and frazzled, riding the impulse to escape her apartment and mindlessly follow her tremulous legs.

She finally received her ticket to freedom just over a year ago under the guise of being tossed to the curb and left to die. It posed as an intentional death sentence, a supposition that Steely was far too codependent and nonfunctional to ever be capable of surviving on her own, but she was familiar with poverty and its accompanying circumstances. Homelessness would simply be another game to win, her ultimate prize being uninterrupted survival.

If one possessed the means / expertise to navigate Cairo and its nightlife while avoiding authority figures / ultra-conservative tricks, then it was possible to not only get by but to profit. Steely more than compensated for what she lacked in means through experience, craftiness, and sheer stubborness - she had been living this way ( in one form or another ) for nearly three years, after all.

Eventually, she scrounged up enough money to cover a deposit and a few months’ rent for a studio apartment on the outskirts. Quality was never a realistic concern for her - the absolute bare minimum had been the standard for so long that it was simply the expectation by now. At any particular moment, all that she owned could be snatched away forever, so the nagging desire for more and better went largely ignored.

As her legs divert from the rural roads surrounding her apartment and into the urban heart of Cairo, Steely observes lights strung up throughout the streets, windows previously dark now alight. Local residents wander despite the late hour, greeting and visiting with one another.

She slows her half-frantic pace. What could have inspired such a drastic schedule change in the short time she had been away from the city? Was there some fantastic cause for celebration that she was not yet privy to?

It is the visible exchange of hot and sweet foods that alerts her to the root of the nocturnal liveliness: Ramadan. She has long since ceased counting the passing months, much less internalizing Islamic teachings or holidays. Uncertain daily survival requires far too much time and energy to properly care about either ( entirely neglecting the deep despair that organized religion breeds in her belly ).

It is only natural that just when she reaches her most vulnerable, her most disgraceful, the festivities of the most boisterous / public month of the year would be in full-swing. Destiny and fate both would have it no other way.

Struggling to keep her overactive mind’s voice in check, Steely rushes onto one of Cairo’s many busy streets. The current activities, while bothersome and disdainful, allow her to escape public scrutiny. Gradually, she catches her shallow, short footfalls and forces her pace to slow.

All of the outward noise exacerbates her anxiety, goading it to gnaw at her sides. Her arms reflexively draw inward to cross protectively over her chest and grasp one another’s elbows; it is a marginally effective deterrent to her maddeningly occupied mind.

She wanders for what feels to be hours in an utter blur, her perception streaked with fog. Remnants of fire burn in her belly and the subsequent smoke curls into her chest, clinging to her lungs and making it near impossible to breathe. Her heart is clutched in its suffocating fingers, squeezing and pulsing.

She is going to collapse and die buried in the bowels of Cairo, felled by an anxiety attack in combination with an insurmountable craving for nicotine or alcohol. Strangers surround her and will be the sole witnesses to her premature demise. The notion is unbearable. 

“Pardon me.”

Just as Steely feels that she is about to start screaming, she very well leaps from her skin instead, startled. She reflexively whips around to procure the audio source, whether or not they intended to speak to her; she would not have bothered if the voice was not in such close proximity to her ear.

The origin is an elderly woman, an extremely elderly woman, thin hair tied back from her wrinkled face with a bandana. She is short ( even in comparison to Steely’s minuscule height ) and dressed in a long blouse. Her chapped lips are pressed together in a manner indicating toothlessness. She appears completely demure, harmless, but her sharp eyes are immediately locked to Steely’s own upon her shift. They are filled with strange conviction.

This is someone’s grandmother. Steely is not apprehensive, not at all.

“I’ve got somewhere to fucking be, lady,” she snaps, silver tongue besting her manners. It is an ingrained reflex to react to the unmerited approach of strangers with hostility, no matter how innocent they appear.

Her arms tighten over her chest as her legs finally stall, mere meters before the old woman. She abruptly realizes how winded she is, barely refraining from collapsing on the spot - unsurprisingly, sprinting for several kilometers in the midst of a panic attack is not advisable. Regardless, her eyes narrow in projected malice, attempting to establish herself as a threat.

“No, you don’t. Not with that attitude. Not running for your life, neither.” The woman is assured in her confidence, never sparing a flinch in response to Steely’s manner. Her withered hands settle absently upon her frail stomach.

“Who are you to assume? Maybe I’m beyond late and have family to dine with,” Steely barks, though some of the acid is inevitably sapped from her tone - she was not expecting such a revealing retort from a woman several decades older than her. It is difficult to dominate the interaction when she is panting like a dog overheating.

“I’ve been around a long time, young lady, and I have seen plenty of people running like you were tonight. You are not being chased - I have yet to see someone following you, and even then, it is a holy month. You have no family to dine with, nor do you have anywhere to go. You’re lost.”

Steely’s head is spinning, either with oxygen deprivation or bewilderment or both; she does not acknowledge being properly gendered. She involuntarily plants her hands on her tremulous knees, bending over in a feeble attempt to gasp. Her dark skin breaks out in clammy sweat and visibly pales as she feels that she is going to be violently ill.

The elderly woman abruptly grips Steely’s bicep, yanking her to the side of the street with more strength than her body should be able to accomodate. Steely has no choice but to follow, audibly wheezing for air and drowning on land. She has attracted some attention with her noise, onlookers gazing at her with a mixture of interest, concern, and even disgust. It is not near as much as her anxiety-riddled brain makes it out to be, but still enough to be humiliating ( especially considering the previously jovial atmosphere of the bustle ). She is about to choke to death with strangers staring.

She is thumped - hard - on the back.

Steely’s knees momentarily buckle, a mighty cough issuing from her throat. She is forced to draw a painfully deep breath into her lungs, spluttering wetly as her eyes bulge in their sockets.

“Hush. People are staring. Breathe.” Steely can feel the woman’s lisp up close, likely the result of excess salivation due to an absence of teeth.

There is little else Steely can do but breathe. She roughly jerks her arm from brittle fingers, shooting a resentful glare to her temporary companion before unintentionally obeying her orders, taking in as much oxygen as her exhausted lungs can accomodate. Eventually, her frantic breathing slows to something relatively regular and residents’ curious eyes are directed elsewhere as they continue about their commutes to relatives’ and friends’ homes. Steely’s malnourished body begins to properly ache with overexertion and withdrawal.

“What the fuck, lady?” she spews, distantly grateful that her voice is naturally quiet in volume despite its tendency toward emotionalism. “Don’t fucking touch me! I didn’t need any damn help!” She is behaving childishly and exposing the underlying stress in her explosion but has little dignity left to care. The nausea subsides.

The old woman is silent, hands briefly disappearing into her blouse.

Steely’s bemusement is beginning to decline, allowing her to suitably assess the current situation: she was just pulled off the street by a small woman appearing to be on the brink of death, got smacked by her ( hard at that ), and she might possess the uncanny ability to see straight through any ruse that she portrays.

“Here. I saw it in your hands. They shake and you smell of old smoke.”

She threads a cigarette into Steely’s thin fingers.

Her body tries to drudge up the energy to be incredulous or bombastic, but it is impossible in the presence of her current vice. All animosity seeps from her cells in an outpour of denied defeat.

She nods her unneeded thanks as she takes the filter between her lips, the woman producing a lighter from the same pocket the carton emerged from. Her hands, though leathery and wasted, do not shake. The end is wordlessly ignited.

Steely takes a deep drag, awaiting the headrush that she knows will only greet her about three quarters through the cigarette. She is so very sick of her shaky fingers and physical discomfort.

“Better?” The woman’s speech is nonjudgmental, the lighter retreating into the flap of her blouse. Her sunken eyes drift blearily up to meet Steely’s own and she nods again.

“I don’t smoke. I keep cigarettes for people like you. My family has long since left Egypt; an old woman must be of some use to society.” Her gaze wanders, passively eyeing the countless people still traversing the streets. The sounds have quieted. “I don’t expect payment.”

“As if I would donate any of my money to the cause of a stranger. I never asked to bum off you.” Steely exhales, docilely observing the smoke wind upward in a misshapen spiral. The tobacco was slightly stale and the hit was weaker than her brand of choice, but she had to expect nothing less of a borrowed cigarette. “I was going to buy some. I was heading to a tobacco vendor when you so rudely stopped me. In case you haven’t noticed, they are still open after sundown during Ramadan.”

The woman laughs, a weak, dry coughing noise in her chest. “Of course. That’s why you were running as if chased by a shaitan.” She does not look at Steely again, seemingly content with staring forward; a touch of a smile graces her wrinkled lips. “You’ve got no money, no pockets, and nothing in your hands.”

Steely groans, puffing unabashedly on her nabbed cigarette; her brows furrow in frustration as her eyes squeeze momentarily shut. Her hand waves the smoke animatedly about. “Stop doing that. I’m in no need of constant fucking psychoanalysis or whatever this is.”

“Do you talk to your family with that foul mouth of yours?”

“I don’t have any fucking family.” The statement is spat, but Steely is wholly neutral, having mellowed out immensely with her fix of nicotine and enervation. The cigarette is half ashed between her fingers. “I came to Cairo tonight for cigarettes and food. Nothing more.”

A blunt sound issues from the old woman’s throat. “You do not need to lie to me, young lady. I’ve had my fair share of liars throughout my life.”

Steely huffs but finds herself falling silent in light of her odd company. She draws the cigarette down to its final half quarter before the headrush hits, just behind her eyes. They slide closed as her fingers begin to tingle, her head separating minutely from her body.

The old woman takes her silence as the perfect opportunity to begin speaking again. “I will not be here for much longer. I have watched Cairo grow before my eyes. I’ve seen the birth and death of more people than I could ever hope to count. The rest of my family is dead or has left Egypt. I would have accompanied them, but it is so difficult to travel now. I do not anticipate seeing any of them again before I die. Don’t go pitying an old woman like me; I have lived a long, blessed life. Which is why I want to ask a young person like you to listen.”

“Just because you’ve lent me a cigarette does not mean I’m suddenly indebted to you. I don’t want to hear your entire life story, no matter how entertaining it may be to you.” Despite her words, she does not pull away, the stub of the cigarette now close enough to burn her fingers. It has yet to reach the edges of the filter so she allows it to simmer.

“I am not expecting it. I am asking. If you truly don’t want to, then I will take no offense.” The woman’s pupils shift, but not to the younger woman’s face.

Steely offers no rebuttal, stubbing the butt of her cigarette out on the pad of her thumb.

The elderly woman interprets her lack of response as consent. “”There are many forms of love and affection. Some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights, who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.” Jeanette Winterson. A recent English author. This sentiment of hers managed to shake me like nothing else has in a long, long while. Don’t worry, you are not special. I say this to every young person who spares me a minute of their time. I just want you, in particular, to take it to heart.”

The woman finally meets Steely’s gaze for the last time. “I do not need confirmation or denial that you will. Knowing simply that I told you is enough for me.”

The next time that Steely travels to Cairo, she does not run into the old woman again - the city is sprawling and alive, far outgrowing the elderly. She learns from a tobacco vendor that she died at the age of one-hundred-and-one in the days following Ramadan’s conclusion. It is not known what happened to her body, nor if any service was held.

Almost a decade later, when Steely is twenty-six and securely positioned in the strong arms of her lover, she remembers the woman who lent her a cigarette during one of the worst periods of her life.