Walking on the Ceiling

by Aysegül Savas

The café regulars ate copious salads piled with meats, or a tagine served with pickles and dried fruits. Some days they had a glass of beer, other times they ended their meals with dessert. I was struck by how appropriate their choices seemed. How they managed to pick the most fitting dish for that hour of that particular day. I wondered how it was that people knew what to do. Small things, I mean. The rituals of a day. The hours.

The Dutch boy told me he had spent all summer reading. He named book after book in an expanding web as if he were trying to sum up the world.

“Adult-to-adult,” I wrote in the box representing our relationship. In the box for my mother I wrote, “Adult-to-child.” Then I changed my mind and wrote, “Child-to-child.”

At the time, I didn’t know what sort of damage could be caused with words. I didn’t know, either, what would be lost.

After breakfast on Saturdays, if my mother brought her book to read at the table without clearing the dishes, I would say that I just needed to get something from my room and would slip out. The trick was to ease her into our routine, without her having to tell me. Otherwise the game would be over. As far as I can remember, it had happened only once or twice that I lost so suddenly, when my mother asked me directly if I would please leave her alone. On good days, when I collected points smoothly, the breakfast dishes remained on the table, and I left them there just as my mother had. If she saw or heard me around the house, she would come and talk to me, or ask if I was hungry. She asked kindly, like an apology. When this happened, I lost several points.