Fes Writes: Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

Yousra Sbaihi Pissed The cat urinates in the middle of the storeroom. The yellowish piss stands out against the white-tiled floor. It flows in rivulets all the way to my new Adidas shoes. Even though the urine comes into contact with the soles only, I can feel smoke rings flying out of my ears. As if she notices my anger the cat steps back on her paws and shrinks amid a heap of over-worn shoes crammed at the corner. The Led light suddenly grows brighter. Is it mocking me? The deeply-carved vertical line between my eyebrows starts buzzing in pain again. If my mom were around, she would be flattening it with her thumb and index finger. I continue staring at the dirty floor while the cat's yellow gold is carpeting all other objects occupying the room: shoes, umbrellas, soap boxes, broken sewing machine. If only the bus driver rolled as fast as this cat's urine! I‘ve been thinking of a getaway excuse to dismiss my friend's invitation to his graduation ceremony, but "sorry, I have to clean some stray cat's piss" does not sound so convincing. I rummage in the drawer under the sink and grab a dish rag. Cursing all the cats in the world, I squat down and soak the rag in the urine. I then wring it in a bucket and do it all over again with my nose scrunched in disgust. As I'm splashing water on one of the umbrellas, a soft meow emanates from the shoes at the corner. The cat cranes her neck out of a shoe box and stares at me as if studying my reaction. She walks towards me, and, not minding my reeking pants, caresses her face against my knees while her claws are busy twitching with the lint on my pajama. I put the umbrella aside, dry my hands in my top and grab the cat between my arms. She keeps purring and fidgeting with the beads in my shirt, and, before I know it, we become friends. But it is a moment of epiphany; Meeting her big amber eyes brimming in childish innocence and joy dawns endless questions on me: Why do I always get pissed at everything? Why do I have to frown, grind my teeth together and nurture this angry fireball incessantly pounding in my chest and threatening to rip it out? Why can't my immediate reaction be a deep breath with my nerves chilling in ice? This helpless creature did nothing but what her instincts whispered to her. And in no more than 30 minutes, the storeroom is left looking pretty much as it used to be, or perhaps even better. I massage the line between my eyebrows and throw the cat a beach tennis ball I found in a shoe. Her speed makes her more of a cheetah than a regular stray cat. The bond engulfing us both grows with each throw of the ball. I am already thinking about going shopping for her food, clothes and toys. This throw-and-catch is not quenching her thirst for games. The ball sunken in her teeth,