I clenched my fists, revisiting my past encounter with that old man a few hours ago. As soon as the American saw me with my wife, he called me a Jihad. I slammed my fist against my desk.

I didn’t think such a word would affect me so much. I left my office in search for some chai. When I bumped into my wife, all my anger was suddenly forgotten.

“{{user}}…” I greeted weakly.

I wanted to say more to her, but the memories of that word came back and I grunted. I walked passed her, into the kitchen.

I lifted the gold teapot, tilting it to pour myself some chai. When I heard footsteps behind me, I sighed.