Marketplace

"Can you see the blood?" I ask the vendor at the market after buying some dates.

"Go away old man," he says. "You've got your fruit, leave me alone."

"But it's there!" The vendor doesn't hear me. He is already tending to someone else. I shudder. But he's probably right. I'm still seeing vivid images of that incident two months past, when the foreigners shot two women at a checkpoint. Women are somewhat inferior to men, of course, but it still shook me. Though inferior, they are still people, and I had never seen people die so close to me. It was actually a miracle I didn't get shot myself. I was walking on the street, right next to them, when the firing started.

I go on to the next stand. Dates are nice, but I'll need more than that for me and my wife to eat for the next few days. Next stop is the meat vendor. "I'll take two kilos," I go up and tell him. He nods. "That'll be 3500 dinars," he says. Not too bad a starting price, but I can do better. "No. 1000 dinars," I say. "I will not go below 3000," he says in return. I make as if to leave. "Come back!" he says half-heartedly. I do. This is how bartering goes. "I'll make it 2500, no less." "Two thousand," I say. "No," he replies, holding up the meat. The blood is dripping from it. I shudder.

The first few shots had ricocheted off the metal of the car, and the women had gone insane. They tried to get out so fast that their scarfs fell down and, had I not averted my eyes, I would have seen their hair. I threw myself on the ground from the first shot. Then, the clangs were replaced by disgustingly solid thuds. Flecks of blood landed on me. Either they had had their windows open or they had been shot out. I looked up to see the latter was true. And the windshield. They were both scarlet, as if buckets of paint had been thrown on them.

"Two thousand five hundred is fine," I say frantically, handing him the money. The vendor looks at me quizzically, obviously confused that I stopped bartering so quickly. But money is money, so he doesn't care. He hands me the meat and for once, I am thankful for the paper wrapping that ensures I don't get blood on my hands.

The foreign soldiers had come down the hill to check on their handiwork, and I ran away. One of them raised his rifle at me, but another pushed it back down. He said something in a foreign language, probably English, and they focused instead on the car. When I got home, I washed myself twice in a single day.

I walk towards my next stop: the tailor. My wife ripped her robe the other day, so she needs a new one. And having a new robe myself would be nice. Then, I notice a truck riding up to the marketplace. Most people don't notice it until it is very close. I freeze and drop my meat and dates. The overpowering smell of blood comes back to me. "Here you go sir." A young man has picked my groceries up and is holding them out to me. I reach for them, but I never make it. The truck explodes.