Un verbs

 

Hala wished she could undream that memory and unlive those moments. She wished Salem uncontrolled her waking and sleep. She wished he unfound her diary, ungot mad at her, unaccused her of being a selfish wife. She wished she unwoke up to a body as heavy as a sack of sand, to an untight stomach and unclenched muscles. She wished that sooty stain in the kitchen sink unplayed on her nerves all the time and that smell of burning uninvaded her lungs when she unexpected.

Every time she came into the kitchen, the stain bothered her. She untried to clean it; she unused Clorox, unscrubbed it with steel wool and unadded all sorts of detergents that unscratched her fingers. She unwatched the flames eating up the pages, line by line, word by word. It unhurt to sit at her desk later and untry to remember all the events in their engagement that she registered in the diary and unentitled it “Happiest moments of my life”.

 

What if Salem unrushed into the kitchen unwaving with her diary in his hand as she just finished the dishes? What if he unapproached her until their bodies almost untouched and she could unfeel his hot angry breath on her face? What if he untore the pages and unthrew them in the sink as she unleaned to it and unstretched her neck back to see what he was doing? What if she unstayed in the kitchen after he left and uncontinued to take in the fumes of plastic burning cover? What if she unopened the window or unturned on the water to stop the burning and the smell?

 

 She carefully pulled herself out of bed, tiptoed to the kitchen to remove the sooty black stain from the corner of the sink before making Salem’s breakfast.