Her name was…

A time to say goodbye.

I confess I didn’t want to meet her. I had to. It was business. So I told myself. Strictly business. I kept telling myself. Then I saw her. Minutes past. I was staring. She didn’t mind.

She wasn’t beautiful. Not in the conventional way anyway. There was a serenity about her which was unerving. I knew her history. Or so I thought. People said she was dangerous. You watch your back. Don’t let her get too close. It was good advice. They didn’t know her though. She wasn’t dangerous. Well, most of the time.

Its been a month since we met. I look around. We are on a hill. I know I am going to miss her. It is the same feeling you get when you are on a beach staring at the sea. The sun is coming down on us. I have to say good bye. I don’t want to say goodbye. We shared. I seen her shades. I know what makes her cry and sometimes when I try really hard I swear I seen her smile.

I tell her I am going to miss her. She stares back without a word. I don’t know what she’s thinking. It doesn’t matter. She knows I have come to love her. Its getting dark now. I tell her I have to go now. No answer. I turn my back on her. I walk down the hill. I try not to look back.

My heart cracks. My lips part. I whisper her name… Pristina.

Sunday Morning Shooting

When CSI comes to a window near you.

Today, a guy was shot behind my hotel.

I was lying in bed when I heard a pop. It was dull like a muffled fire cracker. Suddenly, there was a cry. The cry became a wail. I quickly got up.

I opened the curtain. Right at the end of the alley, a large man with broad shoulders and curly hair was clutching his left thigh. He was barely supported by a friend. Two other men were being fended off. From my vantage point, the injured man seems to be in tremendous pain. Seconds later, a car pulls up and he is whisked away. I pray it is to a hospital. Shortly after, the two aggressors leave.

Five minutes goes by. The police arrive. Someone must have called them. They cordon off the area and start to question people. A crowd begins to gather. The narrow alley becomes a crime scene.

Just when I was about to write that Pristina was as safe as can be, it strikes me how arrogant that statement is. Looking around at a skyline devoid of skyscrapers, you tend to forget that Pristina is still a city. Like most cities, there is a dark underbelly. The yellow police line is a coarse reminder to that.

I close the curtain.