Has someone close to you recently passed away?

Rahad Abir is a writer from Bangladesh. His work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Witness, The Los Angeles Review, Singapore Unbound, Himal Southasian, Courrier International, and elsewhere. He has an MFA in fiction from Boston University. He received the 2017-18 Charles Pick Fellowship at the University of East Anglia. His debut novel, Bengal Hound, will be published this year in the fall. 

The following is a series of short stories by the author. 

The Shadow

The first customer enters the store in the morning. She grabs a drink from the cooler and stands before the cash register. As I give her the change, she asks, has someone close to you recently passed away?

I look at her dark face, into her big eyes. What do you mean?

When I walked in, I saw a shadow next to you. I thought someone was with you.

I gaze at her. My brother died today. Seven years ago.

This Time She Is on Her Own, Alone

Did you know my husband died? she says. 

I stare at her vacantly, without words. I know her husband. A short, somewhat heavy man. He walked slowly. One evening, he threw up in the parking lot. She ran to me asking for some napkins. I have always seen this couple come into the store together. Purchase lottery tickets together.

I'm so sorry, I say. How did it happen?

He had a stroke. At seven o'clock, he said he wasn't feeling well. At ten, he went to bed, and a little later…

I'm so sorry. How old was he?

He was fifty-two.

Still young.

I've been married to him only for a year and a half, she says in a groggy voice. Then she buys some tickets, as she always does. This time she is on her own, alone.

The Rum Punch

Saturday night. Tottenham Court Road. Three in the morning. I am waiting for a bus. A pair of unsteady feet approaches. A young brunette stops at the deepest corner of the station entrance. She squats and relieves herself. One or two cold passersby pause, now warm with their phones. They cheer her up, capture her staggered squatting. Her cone heels challenge her. In a flash, she is all over the waters she has broken. Her strapless mini dress maximizes her magnificence. Her long naked legs fight in the air.

You, I say. Take my hand.

She takes, gets up. She is soft and snowy and smelly.

At the curb a car screeches. Out comes a man in black. Get in the car, bitch, he shouts. He pushes her into the back seat. Then looks at me. Who the hell are you?

Me? I just—

A blow bumps into my face. I fall off where she fell off.

Enjoy the rum punch. Laughs the man out loud.

The car flies away.  

A Buffet in Dhaka Before Covid-19

So one Friday we responded to the Buy One Get One Free buffet offer at the Pan Pacific Sonargaon Hotel. Dine with two families and pay for one. Our host has a platinum credit card that allows him to have dinner at half price in the capital's five-star hotels. As we eat and eat and eat, our host grunts, Nah, the food's not as good as I thought. Some have gone cold, our wives say. The Hilsa fish fry isn't fresh, I add. 

Yet we eat and eat and eat.

Nah, our host moans, we should've gone to the Westin, or the Great Kabab Factory.

Yet we eat and eat and eat. 

We eat more desserts, more cheesecakes, more puddings. When we are chock-full, our host complains to the manager that the food wasn't as great as he thought. The manager is apologetic. Is there anything he could do to make us happy? Maybe we would like to try their pasta that isn't on the menu. Okay, our host gives him a nod.

There comes the pasta, full of cheese and cream and teeming with seafood. One by one, we all take a careless bite. Afterwards, while we sip tea and coffee, the abandoned plate stares at us with orphaned eyes.

Let Me Go Back

Let me go back where I came from, I keep telling her. Why did you bring me here? She hears and ignores me. Then one day she grows sick and tired of me. Okay, she says, it's been a mistake. I feel like I never wanted you. Go wherever you wish. Go to hell. So, I shrink myself and get into her—into the dark cave where I was born. I become smaller and smaller; and in the end I do not feel myself anymore.