Buzzing

Last night they left us in Nizwa.

Accelerating over gray dust and rutted tire creases, the white vans pulled up, threw out, and drove on. My new house is without end, like haphazard blocks piled into a single bulk. I keep meeting new inhabitants. The women cleared a place for me on the rug and we dove into seeded grapes and fat apples. They speak little to no english, thus we rely on my poor Arabic skills to guide conversation. The children run and scream, they are happy with their cropped black hair and dusty feet; peeking around corners.

"Halwa?" I ask Shayman, offering her a carmel. There is a fly on her perfect nose; her earrings are red.

Last night I was hot and then cold and then itchy as the small flies or fleas nipped at my forearm, the nape of my neck. A light on the wall, dimmed in order to be conducive for sleeping, played strobe until Bushra rose to turn it off near dawn. She asked if I would like to go to University with her today, so I am here. When the bus arrived, we stuffed five women into four-wide seats, each row a variant of the matte black abaya and hijab. Liquid black. Sitting between Muffled Coughs and Red Fingernails, the bus was silent save the static of phone keypads being tapped. The rear of their turkish toilets may be encrusted with decade-old shit but their mobiles are sleek and cared for. Sony Ericsson. Charms and zippered cases.

For a second I wonder what it would look like if the cell activity was something our eyes could view. The visual phenomena of 30 women sending and receiving texts. The bus would be sizzling white-yellow; alive with currents and lightning bolts resembling the sparks from static.

And what would be the sound?