Translated from the Arabic by Max Weiss
We have nothing to do with what’s happening. Under the heavy downpour the dirt can no longer evade its destiny of becoming mud. The surface of the soil shimmers as the rain kicks up brown droplets that are spit out in all directions each time the tires inch toward the side of the road, making way for other cars to pass. Some of these droplets splat on the windshield, flecking small ovoid splotches onto the glass that last only until the windshield wipers swish over and remove most of them. But the wipers aren’t able to erase the condensation left on the inside of the glass by the breath of two passengers, which has turned the besieged, muddy plots of land on either…
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The Paris Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, Winter 2024 (250)