This morning when I woke up, I found out that my wire transfer got stuck in the ether because of a time-out error. And I am craving sugar all the time. “It could be an allergy,” my husband suggested, “Or it could be a calamity,” my mother bubbled. My mother calls me every day to make sure that I am alive and sane. My roommate has a whole bottle of ground black pepper in the kitchen, but she hasn’t opened it. I am having to eat my eggs without pepper. “Why has she left her husband?” My mother hounds my sister from one room to another for answers. I don’t have woollen socks or snowshoes. I am impending winter. The person I came to this country for hasn’t asked me how I am. “You did not go to that country for a person,” my sister blusters from a screen. There could have been a minor error in my immigration record even though the officer in the middle of the night at Abu Dhabi airport was a dream. I bought a vanilla milkshake at that airport from a guy called Jim Beam. Twice I used the bathroom for which I had to go downstairs. I slept on a chair with my legs stretched unabashedly wide. Last week I didn’t have onions. This week I don’t have potatoes. I begin the day staring at the empty side of my bed. When I was younger, I waited for things to happen to me so that I could write about them. Now things have happened to me, and I have kept my notebooks away in a drawer.