Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez

particular reason, and began to walk.
    At first it had been okay, and she started to think that perhaps this walking business might be something she’d try every morning; that is, until she settled things with Rick and left the island for good. But after about ten minutes of not seeing anyone else out there walking, or biking, or jogging, or driving for that matter, she started getting a little spooked. A couple of times she found herself spinning around to see who was following her, only to realize that the footsteps she heardhad been her own. And the wildlife she’d hoped to spot during this attempt to become one with nature? All dead. Smashed squirrels and squished snakes and crushed slugs and flattened worms. Roadkill all around. At one point the sound of a plane overhead seemed to offer a welcome sign of life, but when she looked up it literally disappeared into thin air as the grey sky swallowed it whole. A ghost plane. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, she began to wonder if something had happened, if some terrible disaster, some apocalyptic event, had occurred, leaving her unaware and alone and left out there to die. She grabbed the phone from inside her pocket. No service, of course. Then she turned around and hurried back to the house, doubling her pace.
    What was with her, scared of her own shadow? Where was the Sunny who, much to Bashir Hadi’s, and Jack’s, dismay, would leap at any chance to throw on a head scarf and hit the unpredictable streets of Kabul on her own, so anxious to breathe in the smell of fresh naan coming from the bakeries and soak up the sights of the bearded vendors on Chicken Street as they haggled over the price of an “antique” sword or a lambskin hat? And when did she become such a lump? she wondered as she scraped at the bottom of the carton with the spoon. She never used to be like this. Hard work was something she’d always been drawn to, reveling in the challenge of a tough task and picturing the rewards she knew would follow. The coffeehouse was proof enough of that. She was proud of her accomplishment. And that feeling she used to get just from standing back and listening to the hodgepodge of languages, from seeing men and women from around the world, all so far away from everything familiar yet feeling so at home in her, Sunny’s, place? Nothing could beat that.
    Her last Skype session with Yazmina, from the vegan café down in town, had been a little tough. Seeing the jerky image of the Kabul coffeehouse in the laptop screen had made her feel as though it were a set of a movie, like it wasn’t, and had never been, real. The place looked good, with a few slight changes that had been made here and there—some new curtains, cushions, tablecloths—but it did seem a bit quiet for a Thursday evening. Yazmina had spoken quickly and breathlessly in her improving English, her face seeming to glow as she shared with Sunny her wonder at little Najama’s cleverness, her pride at her husband Ahmet’s involvement with others determined to help build a better Afghanistan, and her worries about what trouble that might bring. But she was clearly busy, and before Sunny had a chance to inquire after Halajan and Rashif, or Bashir Hadi, or to ask about how Yazmina’s sister Layla was doing in Minnesota, Yazmina had to go. Sunny had signed off with a feeling of envy she wasn’t proud of.
    Bear stood and stretched, then padded over to the couch where Sunny remained seated and rested his chin on her thigh with a sigh. “You said it, boy.” She stroked the brown fur on his head and stared out into the grey. There was no question about it. It was time to get out of Twimbly. It was time to settle with Rick. It was time to get a plan—a vision that was hers, and hers alone. And if it involved going back to Kabul, so be it. So long as she came up with a plan. It was time to get off her sweet ass and put it in gear.
    But this