Not Real
He answered the phone and heard his name, the woman wrapping the word in a rich accent.
Quentin said, “Hello.”
Farah asked if this was a bad time.
He said, “No,” and left it there.
“Friday,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Our appointment.”
“I remember.” Now he did.
“Friday morning,” she warned. “Ten thirty, at Immigration.”
“Okay then.”
She hesitated. “Are you alone, Quentin?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” Then, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t speak.
“Ten thirty,” she repeated. “But we should meet before. At my apartment, maybe at eight o’clock?”
“We probably should.”
“To talk. To be ready.” She was breathing quickly, as if climbing stairs. “I’ve asked others. I know what to expect. This is just to prove where I live, and that you are real.”
“But I’m not real.”
He heard a soft, mournful gasp.
“You are and thank you,” she said before breaking the connection.
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