nine

20:16:59

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

Hugg moved into a new apartment yesterday. He wanted me to be there when he would first open the door.
I love the place! The building is located on a quiet street in Qoreitem, not far from the sea. Birdsong in the middle of the city is a definite plus.

We rearranged the furniture in the living room, brought in some accessories from the bedroom, dimmed the lights and voila, we had completely changed the mood of the space: cozy, yet chic.

We came back from the supermarket quite late, past midnight actually. I made the bed, while he worked in the kitchen making us a light labneh snack. I felt like I was living here and it felt so normal, too normal. He agreed.
With The Pope I used to be so cautious about everything. I didn’t want him to feel threatened, nor did I want myself to become too comfortable – he would be leaving the country in a couple of months, for good. Even though at times it did feel like we were living together, that feeling was lacking a certain overtone of “household bliss”.
And here I was, in a stranger’s new house feeling more at home than in my own flat.

I stayed the night and then the rest of today. I had brought along my share of work, so I didn’t really need to leave. When he left at noon, I made myself some coffee, smoked a cigarette on the balcony. The sweetheart that he is, he left me the key, “Do whatever you feel like, stay, leave, come back, whatever”.

I had never had “the key” before.

Botticelli used to be so anxious about leaving me alone in his apartment. The only time he did that was when he ran out of cigarettes in the early hours and I was deep in sleep.

I wanted to do something nice for Hugg. The bathroom needed cleaning. Earlier in the morning the plumber came to fix a leak, and he had left it in a mess. Trying my best to avoid touching the soiled floor with my feet, I climbed onto the toilet seat and started spraying the floor with the showerhead. I leaned towards the door to grab the mop…

CRASH.

One foot in the toilet, one on the dirty floor, one hand on the wall and the other hand on the mop. Perfect.
He always claimed that he doesn’t care about material things, because they are only that: things. I shall soon find out how valid that claim of his is.

Oh and I think I flushed the little hanger thing unto which the small shower head next to the toilet hangs. Yes, I definitely flushed it.

I think it’s an unconscious way of showing that I’m no housewife material.

It’s ironic, we get along really well, I can actually see myself living with this guy and it could/would/should never happen.

We promised, in all seriousness, not to fall in love with one another. The zenith of liberty.

Right?