Karen Rosman

The coffee stain

She stroked the soft black notebook under her robes such as a mother strokes her child’s cheek, to marvel and reassure herself at its incredible existence. She steadied her breathing to bring her footsteps into order. It was not done for a woman to run through the souk. Only children and tea urchins ran the cobbled streets. To run would bring a questioning attention. In regular days, she would have lingered in the souk,and breathed in deeply the floating Omani frankincense whilst she allowed herself the pleasure of the finest Pashminas to slip between her fingers. She would have slowed to hear the insistent call of the merchants vying for her attention, offering their wares and enjoying the inevitable haggle, whilst weakly protesting that her low prices kept their children from food. Of course, it did not. It was the ancient ritual of the souk. Happiness came when a good bargain was struck and friendship beyond coinage was understood. But those had been the regular days. And those days had not been for quite some time. Today was not a regular day.