Samira and the Internet

When Daniel rang the doorbell with the nameplate “Family Rahman,” he heard soft footsteps behind the door, then a silence. One second passed. Two. Three. He was sure there was someone standing on the other side, a shadow behind the peephole. But they hesitated to open the door. He thought he could almost feel the uncertainty through the panel.

Finally, the door opened just enough for him to see a face framed in soft beige fabric. Her dark eyes—large, cautious—met his for a moment before modestly lowering to the floor.

“Internet emergency service,” he said, lifting his tool bag slightly as if it were an ID card confirming his identity.

“Are you Ms. Rahman?”

Rahman was his first customer on this early Monday morning. “Urgent! Immediate. Emergency” had been written on his work schedule, which was automatically synchronized overnight with his technician's laptop. A strange contradiction to the customer's hesitant behavior.

She nodded once in response to his question, her lips pressed tightly together.

No smile. She stepped aside silently and held the door open with her palm. As he passed her, she blushed, as if it were something indecent to admit a stranger into her home. Daniel had been in many other people's homes. He had taken this job right after completing his training as an IT specialist over two years ago.

At first, he thought it was weird to be entering other people's private spaces, but he had gotten used to it by now. It always looked the same: shoes lined up behind the apartment door or piled up against the wall, unmade beds or stacks of dirty dishes visible through open doors. Most of the time, the smell of the last meal still lingered in the air.

But here? Here, everything was tidy, almost too tidy. The apartment was immaculately clean. The air smelled faintly of cardamom and something floral. A thick patterned carpet muffled his footsteps.

“Where's the router?” he asked, looking at her. She looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

“The device that connects to the internet. It's usually near the computer,” he explained.

Now her expression brightened. She pointed to a door leading into the living room. Her voice was soft as she spoke, as if she were asking herself whether her answer was correct: “In there... please.”

The router stood on a low table against the wall, the Wi-Fi antennas unfolded, the LEDs dark. On a small desk next to it was a monitor and a keyboard. The PC, an older model, was underneath. A few intertwined cables ran down the wall and disappeared behind the baseboard.

Daniel crouched down in front of the small table and ran a few quick tests. He found it unusually difficult to concentrate. He sensed the woman's presence behind him—not close, but not far away either. He felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck, like when you're doing something forbidden and hoping you won't get caught.

“What exactly is the problem, Mrs. Rahman?” he said, mainly to fill the uncomfortable silence.

She remained silent. Daniel turned around, his eyebrows raised questioningly. For a split second, their eyes met, then she quickly looked away again, as if the situation embarrassed her.

“My husband called you yesterday and explained everything, didn't he? I'm not very good with technical things,” she replied evasively. Her voice changed from a slightly accusatory tone to an apologetic one.

“Yes. Sure. But it usually helps with troubleshooting if you describe it again in your own words. Then I'll be done faster.”

This explanation made sense to her. Apparently, Daniel's presence made her uncomfortable, and the prospect of him leaving soon was a great relief to her. She frowned in a visible effort to remember the details.

“My husband noticed yesterday that he couldn't connect to the internet with his computer,” she began hesitantly, “so he called the emergency service and was told that they couldn't help him immediately and that a technician would have to come by. My husband immediately requested this, but he was... very upset.”

The way the woman instinctively ducked as she said the last words, Daniel could imagine that “upset” was a significant understatement of what had happened. He had probably taken his anger out on her. Without having met him in person, Daniel already disliked Mr. Rahman.

“He urgently needs the internet for his work. He has to do a lot at home on the weekends because he's away on business during the week.” The way she said it almost sounded like an excuse for being home alone. She didn't seem thrilled about it, but didn't see any alternative.

Nevertheless, he noticed a flicker in her eyes from time to time—something that hovered between uncertainty and concern, or ... was it curiosity?