Part Two
The Man He Was
There is a particular kind of person who makes the world run on time, and Amil is that person.
For twenty-three years, he has arrived at his work exactly eleven minutes before his shift begins. Not ten. Not twelve. Eleven.
He calibrates his tone in emails the way others calibrate temperature. He deletes and rewrites sentences so no trace of uncertainty remains.
At a pharmacy on Clement Street, he once spent hours choosing a birthday card for a colleague. Not because he did not care — but because he cared how the care would be perceived. Too sentimental could imply intimacy. Too neutral could imply indifference. Too humorous could imply arrogance.
He left without buying one.
At home, if a grocery list contains a crossed-out item, he rewrites the list entirely so no correction remains visible.
What will they think? It is less a question than a compass. It orients everything.
When Selin, the girl he met several times at the laundromat tells him — gently — that he feels slightly elsewhere when they are together, he does not argue.
On the walk home, he prepares responses he does not give.
He tells himself he will call her when his reasoning is clearer — when he can present himself properly.
He does not call.