Friday 9 March 2012

Muse 2



They agreed to hang out together that day but it was mainly to catch up on work. It was only the two of them when they arrived at the open-air café located in the outskirts of Cairo. For a few hours, she was actually having a very refreshing afternoon; sitting in the sun on a comfortable couch, sipping an ice-cold  piña colada, smoking an intoxicating coconut-flavored hookah and sitting next to the man who not only seemed to be the man of her dreams, but the manifestation of her dreams in a man.

“Do you have a lot of work?”

“Yeah, I have to correct quizzes for 3 classes and listening tests for two, how about you?

He was sitting with his legs crossed, staring at the laptop screen. “I have a few quizzes and tests, but not as much as you.” 

They had just recovered from a big fight but she didn’t doubt for a second that she wanted to give their relationship another try. 

Later in the afternoon, seeing that he had quit correcting his papers and was doing something on his laptop, “What are you working on?” she asked.

“There’s a short story contest at the university and the story I want to submit for it is over the word limit but every single paragraph is important.”

 A contest? You never told me about it before.

 “Which story is it?” She bent over and took a look at the screen. “Oh, I read that one! I think my first comment on your blog was when I read that story.”

She was sitting right next to him, but he didn’t ask her opinion while he edited his short story. His eyes were fixed on the screen, fingers on the keyboard.

“Anyway, umm…why don’t you remove the 4th paragraph, when she was on the plane?” she suggested.

I can’t believe it was only last week that you told me about one of your stories before even writing it. You’re different today. This must be the side of you my friends warned me would eventually take over.
“No! I can’t do that, it symbolizes the conflict between the two cultures, I can’t remove it.”

After years of being with the wrong guys, of thinking that maybe it was her fault and not theirs, of trying so hard to convince herself that it just wasn’t time yet, she finally found him.  He was the only man who had brought out the writer in her, who saw the optimist and the dreamer. He was the first to admire her intellect and then her sexuality, her sarcasm and then her humor. He saw her from an angle she had never known existed.

“I can’t wait till I’m done with these classes, I miss London so much.”

I miss you.

“Yeah, I’m so excited for you! Do you have any specific plans?”

Having lived in London all his life, the past two years in Cairo had been extremely tough; it was time to pay home a visit.

“I think my friends and I are going on a road trip, we might even go to Paris.”

Her eyeliner was perfectly painted over her eyelids, but he didn’t look her straight in the eye.    Her skin was musky-scented, but he didn’t put his arm around her. Her fingers were decorated with beautiful rings, but he didn’t hold her hand.

“So, are you going bowling with the girls tonight?” he asked.

“They’re going bowling? No one told me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. I might go.”

Wait, we’re not spending the day together?

“I don’t know. I have a lot of work to do. Probably not.”

 I know he’s sitting right next to me, but he’s just not here. The writer in him isn’t being articulate today, the naughty guy isn’t flirting with me, the poet isn’t describing how beautiful I am, the friend isn’t talking about his day, the thinker has abandoned teasing my brain, and instead we’re just talking about anything but us.

Their silence, a big dark cloud, hovered over them. He continued switching only between his papers and his laptop and she was drowned in tests, answer keys and grade calculations. Between every few checks or crosses on a paper she would take a long drag of her hookah, and look at him from the corner of her eye.
He was holding back what he was really feeling and she wasn’t sure what to ask him. And so she decided to wait for him to come out with it, because, just like the short stories he wrote, he was being very hard to read.

On their first official date a month earlier, a romantic moment had brought them closer than they'd ever been. Eyes closed. She was trying to preserve the moment, to lock it up in a place of happy memories. She couldn't believe it was really happening. Being so close to a girl, he remembered what he'd been through, and told her he wanted to take it slow. He was scared for the both of them, he said.

The sun rays were starting to fade, and the new phase of the day was eclipsed by the moon.

“By the way, I’m leaving in a little while,” he said. “I haven’t spent enough time alone lately.”  Trying to stop himself from smiling, he added, “My plan for tonight is to be alone…read--he sighed-- and write.” 

There was no way she was going to ask him to change his mind since he’d already chosen his own company over hers. But what she really wanted to ask him was if he cared about her at all, if he cared about them at all. 

He took a long drag of his own hookah, held his chin up and let go of the smoke very slowly, seeming to enjoy it as it left his lungs.

“Dina, you do know that my wanting to go home isn’t personal, right?”

An instant smirk formed on her face.  With a sharp tone, she said, “I actually don’t see how it’s not.”
“Oh come on, Dina. You know that that’s just me. I’ve known since I was a kid that I want to become a writer. I need my solitude,” he said.

“But… look, I understand how much you like being alone, but Adam, I feel that you enjoy being alone more than… anything else.”

He took a deep breath and for the first time that day he looked her straight in the eye. She knew he had finally decided to voice his thoughts.

“Dina, I’ve lived alone since I was 15. You know, when my dad used to go to work and I would have a cold, I used to make soup for myself. In other words, I’m used to being alone; I’m used to doing everything myself and my way.” 

He chuckled, and covered the smile on his face with his left hand.

She raised both her eyebrows, gestured with her left open palm “What’s so funny?” 

“Oh, it’s not funny. It’s just um…I think I’m just like my grandfather.” He shook his head.

“Like your grandfather?”

“Well, he was a writer too, and he would spend hours alone in his office, writing. He actually never stayed married. He got married more than once but he always ended up divorced. I think it’s just…us.”

She squinted.

Adam, as if taking his one and only chance to speak his mind, took the confession seat.

“You know, this might be shocking to you, but in the future, I actually don’t mind having a child outside wedlock. I think that’s how much I don’t mind not having a wife but I would really like to have a child.”

Sitting on his right, she had one leg over the other and was looking over at him, in awe, as if watching him perform. He sank into his seat, legs slightly apart, staring into the disappearing sun, and a ponderous smile grew on his face. He blew his hookah smoke in the air, waited for it to clear, and then turned to Dina.

“I don’t think I can actually have a long-term partner. I will inevitably end up alone.”

 Every time he said something it tore her pride because he was making her wonder whether or not he was really breaking up with her.

 “I think it’s because my mom left my dad.”

Because he had her sit there listen to why she didn’t fit in his life, and yet he acted as if he were simply talking about himself.

 When he decided it was time for his solitary ritual, he left her money for the check, and asked her only once if she was okay with staying alone in the café. 

Watching him happily leave, a thought unraveled in her mind. He really left. He left me. And then she realized that not only had he left her like all the other men in her life had, he had left her behind.

 It was as if the space he had occupied when he was with her was automatically filled with descending words, and emotions. She couldn’t contain herself; she needed to outpour her overflowing self before it all evaporated. She reached into her bag and frantically searched for pen and paper. Under the dimmed lights of the café, amongst the chatter and laughter of the couples surrounding her, in the midst of the loud music, she managed to seclude herself. She was trying to transform her feelings into words. She was racing with her own brain, because if she didn’t write fast enough she wouldn’t be able to capture the muse that had temporarily possessed her.

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