Romance Novella 4

The tired, sleepless, assaulted-feeling Afghan woman rose at ten next morning. Why? Too darn stiff to stay in bed any longer. We-ell she reflected, made the right choice, no matter how bad this is. Can't imagine 100 years in a wheelchair.
There was no coffee in the kitchen, green tea. Felt nice, soothed her parched throat.
Not hungry, just curious, she set out with a variety of coins in search of a newspaper, returned a few minutes later with an English-language one proclaiming today to be Saturday.
Almost none of it was readable. First, written English had not been M/Cpl Boisvert's longsuit. Second, even if it had been in French, it was dodgy, as he had left school at age 14.
Still, it yielded a tiny concept of circa 2000 Canadian politics, the coming weather and the knowledge that tonight the Montreal Canadiens would play on TV.
Casting the paper aside, she searched for clues. An ID card proclaimed Tasma Aziza to be an employee of the university library. As she fingered this, the vision came. She knew what she'd be doing, putting books back on shelves. Hours of work, where to show. Monday morning, gotta pull things together fast.
The statement from the student loan authority made her gasp. Between the monthly payment, the rent receipt and what she could decipher from cash register tapes from the supermarket, she would barely balance her books.
Further sifting led to the discovery the degree had been in history. What a useless degree, unless you got really lucky! Which apparently Tasma was not.
The absence of any form of personal correspondence puzzled her. Weren't women into letters? Weren't Afghans family oriented? Did this imply she was an outcast?
The hockey game was as good as ever. Sadly Montreal lost, but hey it was still a great game. For the first time she actually felt optimism. Yes indeed, there would be another game next Saturday, something to look forward to.
Out on a walk Sunday, she discovered the nearby supermarket. Funds were limited so all she bought was French bread, beef pastrami, cream and French Roast coffee.
The pure pleasure of it warmed her. Good as ever. Maybe things will be ok.
She showed at work Monday in a cheerful mood. As she pushed her cart out to the aisle where she would work, she reflected on her good luck. Far better than a people job with all its complications. This gave her the chance to observe quietly, learn, with no real pressure.
Morning coffee, she said nothing as usual. The rest spoke of boyfriends, dope, term papers and thesis.
A few minutes after coffee she overheard two talking.
"Tasma looks different this morning."
"Yeah actually cheerful for a change. Maybe she'll shake that depression after all."
"Must be awful, her whole family is outcast to the rest of the Afs. The she doesn't get along with her family."
"And look at her, not like boyfriends will be lining up to pick her up."
Later, in the bathroom, Tasma looked in the mirror. True, not ugly, but below average. In the days of M/Cpl Boisvert, no way he'd have picked up someone like that.
Then she chuckled, made it easier. If you're a knockout, they climb all over you, harder to adjust to this new world.
She shrugged, back to work. By now it was automatic, accustomed to the Library of Congress codings. Easy, hypnotic tranquility.
Gradually the realization formed, she could read summaries on the back of education curriculum books. She spotted an Afghan story for children, "Parvana's Journey". Curious, she stayed after work to read a few chapters.
First surprise was she could. Second, it was fun, a good learning experience. She resolved to stay every day, finish this book, move on to others by the same author.
As she walked home, she realized she was very fortunate. This gig was doable, so many weren't. Yes, things will be just fine.