forty-seven

23:42:07

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

Simultaneously, I receive a "BonZour" and "Hey! Ssup bad gul :p"

A collaborative resurrection. A coffin lid that slid an inch and expelled the smell of skeletons and withered, stiff forget-me-nots. 

The dead eyeballs roll forward again and looked at me accusingly, why have you forgotten us?

Leon and Hugg, a man and a half, two characters that I let settle to the bottom of my list of people I wanted to be connected to. There was something about them that just didn't fit.That smell of fish in the middle of the Gobi, that empty highway at rush hour, that sound of a stray firework weeks after New Year's - that something that made you turn around and head the other way.

Both were certified. Leon, reliably endorsed by being a friend of a friend of a friend and Hugg, (to be yet) legally declared insane.

I met Leon through work. What was to be a professional meeting for coffee, stretched into a drive to the mall, a shopping spree for a lamp for my home and a dinner by the sea.

His body was a paragraph of triceps, biceps, deltoids, pectorals, abdominals, latissimus dorsi, adductors and laterals written with roaring, ripping rhyme and rhythm and its poetry touched me like only a primal awakening could. He was the physical definition of man. His skin was tanned and rough looking, his cheeks chiseled to perfection, his lips thin and firm, his arms hairy, his face clean-shaven, but at the ready to sprout at any given moment and his nose tip dipped, recalling the shape of a pair of well-loaded Speedos. But his eyes spoke of something opposite. They were almond-shaped, deep wells of dark brown chocolate, laced with lashes that called for a two page spread mascara ad. They softened his menacing jaw-line, they looked at me softly and the twenty years between us evaporated as did the formality that we had swallowed along with our first cup of coffee.

He would always ask about my cat and give her love and affection the few times he had come over. I was soon classified under the feline species, "How are my two cats doing?" he'd message me. He lacked the royal mane of a lion, but he fit right in the serengeti of my imagination. I could picture him lying in a strategic spot, his body pertched up by an elbow resting on the ground and his other arm resting like a stamp of ownership on his bent knee, the horizon stretching out before him in four clean lines over which the satin bed sheets draped and spilled...the fantasies came easy.

It didn't take long to succumb to the primal laws of the savage plains. The fragile ecosystem depended on either one of us to win, to fight it out like only prey and predator could, to have the battle end in shreds and shrieks and a satisfaction of a prehistoric craving. But our roles were interlaced and we spoke in meows and purrs lacerated with what could only be pleasure and we fell back into the fitting curves of our bodies with a heaviness of a blackout.

But that was the only fit. Like two puzzle pieces that come together in perfect contour, but one a piece of sky and the other a piece of ocean. The way he..., the way it..., the way... I could not pin it down, I could not name why I felt uneasy about the two of us, so I blamed his few grammatical mistakes for my sudden aversion...even though I knew he had an iPhone and that his fingers were too large for the tiny keyboard.

Hugg was more didactical. Our relationship grew from him preaching to me his sci-fi dogmas and me listening to them avidly. I was eager to interact on what he called the third level of communication, to discuss abstract concepts and ideas, rather than who ate where and who did what. Cruising round the Corniche, we escaped reality, he encouraged me to dig deeper into my spiritual wells, to let go of social bullshit...

only so we could later show up, hot and gorgeous, at some drunk n' bass party. It didn't fit, even if we left early, even if we knew that we were above all that stuff, even if we dicussed how pointless, how absurd...and then we'd go back again the next weekend.

Our journey started as a platonic friendship. The blindiness of beautiful theory!

"I am looking for a friend. I need a friend right now. I want us to become best friends. I want to share everything with you."

Does everything include kisses and hugs and cuddles and caresses and moans and sighs?

It did. And I could never let go of the initial theory sold to me, because I am that person that gets caught up in details and finds difficulty in letting go of the story even when the book is over. He didn't practice what he preached. He was a walking paradox.

Flutterby messaged me last night: I got a restraining order on my ex-boyfriend - apparently I was a victim of Stockholm Syndrome.

Come to think of it, I think I was too. Hugg was abusive. He'd play me hard: raise me up and then tear me down. It's a cunning game and it works. You are trained to love your abuser. Hugg was a dog person and he wanted me to be his dog or even l'ombre de son chien. Within a month or so, I felt a cloud of bad energy begin to build up. I didn't feel good most of the time and I'd go looking for that better in Hugg. And he played me. The morning I walked out on him when he was still asleep, was the best move I had done for myself. It was checkmate.

But it didn't come with the pride and glory of a strong woman, I have to admit. I called on Botticelli. He had just come back from vacation. I wanted the safety of his arms and the safety of his appartment, far away from this street and this world that I really didn't belong in. I was already parked beneath his window when we spoke on the phone. He didn't know, but the invitation never came. I hung up, swallowed everything and drove off into the rising sun.

So don't supp bad gul me. Because I'll say hey. Because I'm too weak to send you away for good.

thirty-eight

12:28:45

I'm stretching my legs during lunch break.

And enjoying the play of cool shade and sunshine circles that diverge and converge through the filter of leaves. It's cool and warm at once, like the weight of a broad thought that considers both melancholy and happiness.

This little courtyard has always been my refuge. It's small enough to be filled with a single person's presence, but large enough to accommodate those who walk in in twos or threes. It's evident that the first arrival owns the place from the way a he or she walks in, looks around, notices the occupant and walks back out. The circle of intimacy that I create by the simple act of sitting down pushes away those illiterate in the divisibility of space. I won't ignore you. On the contrary, I will gladly make room for you because I understand your need to interject a flight of stairs in between yourself and the crowd. Crowds to me are like starless night skies to a ship's captain: unnavigable.

My first contact with water could have been deadly. I was too young to remember, but my grandmother painted the picture for me. I was about three, scavenging the shore for shells and pebbles, when suddenly I decided to run straight into the river. Fortunately, my grandma saw my dash for mermaidom from the corner of her eye and dove into the water to yank me out before the current washed me blue. To this day, rivers bewitch me. There are so few here in Lebanon. I've learned to love the rhythm of tides and waves of the sea, buts its depths and endlessness frightens me. Crowds make me cower, crowded people too I cannot handle. I fare better on single currents.

And sometimes surfing the net. I've always been a lucky black widow in the world wide web.

Over the years I've ridden it to Tower, to Simply, to Botticelli, to White Russian, to Hugg and to Imaginary Extraordinary Him. The sea has currents too it seems and I will let them take you to their stories.

twenty-seven

20:52:03

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I'm on the balcony. Another power cut. There is the setting sun and the headlights of a car parking. I hear distant beeps of electricity being held hostage. One building lights up, the neon lights in the kitchens flickering for a couple of seconds. Then the next one. Then mine, the light from the room washing unto the balcony tiles to touch my heels.

I cut off Hugg completely. It's been one month exactly. I've been ice cold, unwilling to call or see him. No wish whatsoever.

The last time I saw him was at his place. He was lying down on the bed, laptop on his stomach, headphones on full blast. I sat and watched him. He could see me smiling, he could see me talking.

"What did you say?"

"I said that it's very nice you feel so comfortable around me."

"I'm waiting for you to finish with your phone."

And then it started. You are selfish. You are selfish. You are selfish. In all the colours of the dictionary. I left the room, and through the walls and under the door, the colours were still flying.

Message incoming.

"Finish with your phone."

"I can't look at you."

So he hugs me and I cry and he feels bad.

"You can't help it. You are still stuck in your adolescent stage. This is who you are. It's okay."

He hugs me tighter. I turn round and nestle my chin on his shoulder, I want him to feel the hot tears, but most of all, I want to forget this.

He starts to kiss me, softly and gently at first, but within moments his breathing becomes heavier, his face changes into that relentless expression of hunger and I lose all my senses except that of disgust.

I don't move, I don't respond, my mind runs into the distance, stops and then turns around to watch. It's almost witness to necrophilia. My body, on its side and rigid, and him like a tadpole on acid, wriggling and squirming. Euw. I move away before he finds his way.

He drops me, rolls over and falls asleep. Just like that. Nasty. I want to jump out of my body, grab it by the hair and drag it through the streets until there is nothing but shreds.

I sit in the stuffy living room, the hard armchair doesn't let me fall asleep. I open the window and look down unto the street. I lean forward as much as I can, as though to induce the thought of suicide so I could feel sorry for myself. I even think of a scene where Hugg would wake up, come looking for me and see me leaning out the window, the tips of my toes barely touching the sofa and him feeling guilty... I catch myself before I fall into a cheap adolescent soap opera where I am the victim and he is the good cop/bad cop. I gather my things and leave. I'm done with being polite. Polite never got me anywhere.

He called me a couple of days ago. I haven't gotten round to calling him back. If I did, it would be out of courtesy and out of fear that I would make an enemy.

Our relationship only worked because I going too fast to stop at each قف sign, and there were many. But the single most obvious one:

I did not like his smell.

And no matter how hard I tried not to inhale, he was suffocating me. Smell aside, there was always something fishy about him, something I couldn't put my finger on, something that didn't fit. I cut him off and my life bloomed.

The kitchens are lit, TV screens flicker on the 2nd and 4th floors, but most of my neighbours have switched their lights off long ago and are sound asleep in a darkness chosen. Peace reigns.

seventeen

01:05:45

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

For these past two days I have been really inspired and consequently, I want to be left alone with myself. When I’m in creative mode, I am my own best company.

However, every now and then I would find myself thinking about people, people who are dear to me.

Belle. Belle is one of those people I consider to be a true close friend. If I do not see her for more than two days, I start missing her. Sometimes, I miss her the moment we say goodbye. We keep in touch when we are too busy with our lives; she is the kind of person I can send a random thought to without even considering the context. It has been a week since I last saw her, but thinking about her keeps her close.

Hugg. Hugg is also one of those people who I only need to think about to feel their presence. I would usually see him, even if I have a lot of things going on, but this time, I am pushing our meeting further and further into tomorrow. As I’ve mentioned previously, I want us to stop our sexual relationship, but today, while watching L’Auberge Espagnol, I found myself thinking about him. That movie has an immense effect on me; it wakes me up to the world. I was exhausted when I got home, but I could not allow myself to sleep early.

Hugg called me during the movie. I wished for him to be sitting next to me and experiencing Barcelona, because he was, I quote, “having the worst month in his life”. Poor baby, he should be right here with me and not on his own, suffering.

Seeing him there right in front of me, would materialize the consequences of my resolution, and I’m still too weak not to push it to the back of my mind. I can easily imagine myself thinking, “This will be the last time, just for “closure’s” sake.”

Botticelli. I still feel the impulse to appear on his doorstep (with a quick announcement of my intending to do so before, of course!), but as soon as I imagine seeing him, I immediately pull myself back. The last time we spoke, he was really selfish. How? How could he accuse me of being ungrateful? How? I can’t seem to stop being angry with him. Does he not remember at all how I was? He was the one who had expressed his appreciation of how I would “respect his time and freedom”. He didn’t know many women who were capable of that. But perhaps that’s not what men really need? They love to be fussed over, taken care of, adored. I, however, would always ask for his “permission” to do so.

“Are you home? Are you busy? Do you mind if I pass by?”

It was always a “pass by”. It was light. It was digestible.

Nevertheless, I need to see him. I have something borrowed and so has he, important things. I have something I need to say to him. I need to have us laugh and hug again. I was always the champion of avoiding conflict and confrontation; a skill that can sometimes turn against me.

Gymnase. I haven’t had news from him since the summer I met him. That was three years ago. This morning, I received a poke from him. When I saw his name, everything came back to me. I was back in Paris, sitting in the dark living room, watching Destricted, waking up at the crack of dawn and taking the metro to Montmartre, walking the empty streets, seeing Paris stretch and yawn, having coffee at Les Deux Moulins, saying goodbye, saying hello, bisou, salut, t’es fou. He was the lightest being I had ever met. He was also the first man who openly talked about his homosexual tendencies. I was fascinated.

But most of all I remember his weightlessness; it was in everything he did. He didn’t walk, he floated. He didn’t talk, he spoke. Even when he would move suddenly, everything else around him slowed down. His sketches were also very unique in their style; simple, thin black lines that seemed to be there only because you were looking for them.

He left Paris before I did. It was a sad morning. I found him in the kitchen, making coffee for the two of us. We sat and drank in silence. I was angry with him for leaving me. We had only known each other for three days, but they had been filled with magic. I got dressed and was at the door, ready to leave. We hugged for a very long time. He had a body that felt too small for his age, too soft and too fragile. I couldn’t imagine him in those underground gay clubs he told me about. To me, he could only ride on clouds.

When I returned that evening, he was already gone. On my bed, I found a CD with a yellow post-it on it. I still have it on my desk.

Tu trouveras plein de choses dans le dossier “gymnase”. Prends soin de toi! :-) gymnase.

His handwriting too is afflicted with his lightness, his unbearable lightness of being. There! That describes him perfectly.

I also have the ticket for the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” he had taken me to. And I have the letter he wrote me. They were the most beautiful words anyone had ever given me.

Tu es apparue a un moment ou la tendresse se fait ressentir.

Tu as un regard particulier a la vie…un regard doux sur les barbares. Sans voyeurisme, tu preleves la lumiere, une meche de cheveux, un motif sur un chapeau, une bouche qui aspire au monde…

Tu decapites.

sixteen

02:10:09

I’m sleepless and on my way back to Beirut.

While I was waiting in line to board the plane, I noticed a young couple just ahead of me. He was clearly Lebanese, and she, an assumption I made once I heard her speak, was French. She kept on running her fingers through his hair, kissing his ears, his cheeks, so on and so forth. The Arab business man standing in between us ran out of spots to look away at. I smiled at the thought of what he must have been thinking.

I thought of Hugg. He had proposed to meet me at the airport, and I had to refuse his offer, because I had already asked somebody else to come and pick me up. I wished I hadn’t. I imagined myself coming out, seeing his smile, looking away, smiling, and letting my bags drop to the floor so I could hug him. I would be home again.

Wow. Did I just write that? Excuse my mush.

I am not particularly fond of mush, and when things ended with Mr. Keller, I explained it as my inability to handle him and his mush. The mush factor was so strong, that it was close to becoming a third person in our relationship, the golden tip of a love triangle.

Mr. Keller was a gentleman. He would leave the car, walk around it and open the door for me. He would stand up when I’d leave or come to sit at the table. He would settle the bill. He would hold the door open for me. He would call me “lovely”.

To be honest with you, I found the whole spectacle to be over the top. There has to be a limit somewhere, and I felt that somehow, somewhere, he had crossed it. It made me feel uncomfortable. Maybe I didn’t feel I was the kind of woman who deserved all those grand gestures? Maybe I was used to a wrong way of being treated? Or maybe he was just flat-out weird?

But this must be said: better a gentleman, than a pig.

Speaking of pigs…

How would you feel if you were taking a romantic evening walk and suddenly heard the gorgeous man you were walking with pass wind? You might raise an eyebrow, frown or even chuckle; shit happens, we’re human after all.

How would you feel if that same person farted again?

How would you feel if the entire evening walk was punctuated with little rectal explosions?

He failed to apologize, and instead explained that his doctor had recommended him to let it all out, “Better out than in”, he said.

Wasn’t that a quote from Shrek?

How would you feel like if the exclamation mark of that evening, the highlight of the walk, was him unzipping his pants and peeing into a flower pot in the middle of Achrafieh?

And how would you explain your presence next to such a pig? How could you have ended up with someone like that in the first place?

Appearances can be deceiving. The pig I have just described to you was no one other than Clooney. Yes, the very same Clooney with the suave walk and talk. The very same Clooney who had made romantic literature come to life only a night before. Yet, there he was, acting half my age, fourth his age, farting, pissing, yanking out his beeper thing (or whatever little device it is that updates the pocket owner with soaring and plummeting stock rates) and shouting at the top of his lungs that he had “to buy gold, now!”, letting me know that he had “slept with all those whores at Shah” and then ramming his tongue down my throat in the middle of a busy intersection. Oh, oh, that’s not even it. The overly nice (that episode put an end to it) person that I was, I dropped him off to his car, while he kept on inviting me back to his place, “Don’t worry, we will not have sex” and I kept on refusing. When we finally arrived, he asked me for the final time, I said “NO!”, and he called me "rude".

For a month now, and exactly a year after I last saw him, I’ve been seeing his delicious car candy parked outside his workplace, the only one in the street, absorbing the black of the late night sky and reflecting the yellow of the overhead street lights.

And I wonder, whether the window in his office has been left open...

And I hope, for his and her sake (probably another “whore” from Shah), that he had quit smoking and she hadn’t taken it up for this particular occasion to appear seductive, because surely the entire building would burst in a violent blast if someone were to strike a match in their room.

And I would be the only one aware that the wind wasn’t capable of carrying the heavy aroma of the Qarantina slaughterhouse all the way to the middle of Downtown. I would be the only one in the know.

PS – How would you explain this 360degree change of character?

fourteen

01:01:22

I'm sleepless in Dubai.

Even though I don't really miss Hugg (what a feat, it's only been a day), I've become so accustomed to receiving his text messages every couple of hours, that I started growing more and more anxious as hours passed without him replying. Finally, I called. We spoke for 30 seconds, but it was so nice hearing his voice, that I had enough to last me the entire day.

The thing is, I really believe we are meant to be just friends, I think we are both mature enough to pull off a platonic relationship. I am still unsure whether or not I believe in such a thing, but if it is defined as a relationship between two people without the sexual, physical bit, then yeah, it is doable. But what about all the sensuality and the sexual tension that usually exists in such a relationship?

Personally, I feed off of that tension and then channel all of those frustrations creatively. I am most inspired when there is a man in my life, but not when he is in my bed. The latter is too simple and too predictable an ending. The day a man tells me he'd rather wait, will be the day I'll invent something wonderful. And that man, will be wonderful. And that man, might just as well turn out to be a figment of my imagination.

Not that I haven't met one. Mr. Keller, he wanted to wait. But he wasn't so inspiring, since the reason behind his refusal to consolidate our love was more a matter of comfort, than that of a conquering of mind over phallus. However, he did conquer and it was a pleasure watching the battle.

I think of Hugg and I think we could do it, we could turn a new blank page, because what's done is done. I don't regret one bit of it, it was the most natural thing in the world. It was a full stop to a magical moment. However, now, "the recapturing of magic" feels a little forced, a little bit like an elephant in the room – it's too big for our bed. In any case, that doesn't mean we have to stop sleeping in the same bed, I enjoy it too much to give it up that easily.

About a year ago, I had a best friend, or so he was given the title. Today, if you'd see the two of us in the same room, you'd think we had never met – but that's a different story.

We had known each other for about a year, and by then he had become the person I'd call as soon as I'd return home with a story; he was my living diary. When we first met, I was his crush, and he was my Prince. I really enjoyed his company, and he enjoyed mine too, and sometimes that feeling of joy can be confused for something deeper.

I remember the day we went for a drive along the coast, it was the most beautiful spring afternoon. The top was down, the wind pulled at my hair and the sea was blue blue blue. We stopped the car and went walking on the rocks. It was a little awkward for me; the whole setting was reminiscent of a cliché scene from a romantic comedy, so I spoke of crabs and waves crashing. We sat down, in silence, and looked into the distance. Some time into that moment, he put his arm around me. I remember thinking, "Oh no!", but I didn't want to appear hostile, so I just let it stay there. I think he got the message from the way I held my breath and remained frighteningly still. It never happened again.

We became really close in a short period of time and we used to share some very intimate details. I remember waiting impatiently to see him, so we could both divulge what had happened over the weekend.

A few of weeks into our friendship, he confessed that he had a crush on me. I told him that I was aware of it, but that I wasn't able to reciprocate. He took it well and we never spoke of the issue again.

So last year, during one of my dry spells, (due to Botticelli's need to be left alone), we decided to explore each other where the usual social protocol for platonic friendship would never permit. Prince was to come over and I was to put on some Barry White.

When I look back at that night, I remember it as a blur. The only detail that stands out clear above the rest is his crisp white shirt against his tanned skin. It was a disaster; we never went through with it. He blamed it on the cold marble floor that chilled his feet, but I just took it as an obvious sign that we were not meant to cross the thin red line.

Fortunately, we took it as a valuable lesson and continued being best friends.

But wait, we don't even talk now…

Was it because we lost the tension? Was it because the possibility of romance was completely obliterated? Or was it because we grew apart as people do?

However, with Hugg, the situation is a little different. Already, we have denied our future the possibility of romance, the ambitious promise to NOT fall in love. Yet, we continue releasing our sexual tension. If we were to stop, it would build up again, because at the end of the day, the electricity between us exists. It would free the two of us, and we could forever have that freedom if we continue being strong and mature. I have to discuss it with him, but I also need to make clear that I want to do this because I really care about him and deeply value our understanding of one another. If we continue like this, something will go wrong because I am not ready and don't want to be.

He gets me, he shows me and he likes me – I would like to have him around for a very long time indeed.

thirteen

03:46:51

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I'm at the airport. Hugg called me earlier on, when I was still home. When I told him I'd be taking a cab, he sounded disappointed, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted you to take me, but you're so far away. I shied away from asking you…"

"You're going all alone?"

"Yes. I'm used to it, I always do."

"I'd come right now, but I am not sleeping home, I can't leave now. I wish you had told me fifteen minutes ago."

So much for complaining that he didn't offer to give me a lift. I feel bad now.

He had a rough day, he told me. He was tired; he had to give up the apartment because the girl he was taking it from cheated him. Bitch.

He sounded so down, I really felt for him. I do care about him, I do. I hope he can channel all these frustrations into his work. Times like these can be very inspiring.

The drive to the airport was pleasant. I was running a little late, as usual. My fear of missing my flight was rather concrete: it wouldn't be my first time.

The cab driver was young and I was in my cheeky mood. We hit it off right away. I guessed his age and even his name. But then again, who isn't named Elie in this country?

I was showered with subtle compliments. He didn't get many clients like me, he sighed.

I love striking up conversations with strangers, especially with people who think I wouldn't give them the time of day because of my name, my looks, my clothes, my address… I really want to fight the stereotype of the pretty girl who looks down on anyone who can't afford to pamper her and tickle every single one of her fancies.

We spoke about relationships. He confessed that he didn't want to get married unless the girl was someone really special, someone he would want to see daily. He didn't have his bar up too high: someone presentable, with a cute face, cute eyes, cute lips, who was attractive, but without silicon breasts, lips or whatever, who took care of her hands and feet (because it was the first place he'd look) and who wasn't stupid. He asked me why the girls of nowadays were.

"Because the pretty ones think it will suffice to be pretty?"

"No, because they think they are smart, while that might not always be the case."

I encouraged that train of thought, "Smart is a person who knows he doesn't know anything".

He told me that I should go for a guy who was generous.

"Even if he doesn't have, he will make sure you have."

My father had once spoken along those same lines, "Miserliness in a man is unacceptable".

When we got to the airport, he refused to charge me the fare.

"I didn't even feel the drive"

I shook his hand (he had a firm grip, I really hate it when people hand me a cold, limp hand), told him it was very nice meeting him, smiled and walked away.

Hugg tells me I'm too nice, that I need an attitude. Fine, he's not wrong, but I think this time, I was the right amount of nice and the right amount of cheeky. I should master the art of the golden middle!

There is nothing uglier than arrogance, no matter who the fuck you are and especially, who the fuck you think you are. You might dine at Table d'Alfred and they at the saj place around the corner, but your shit floats side by side theirs in the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

So I smile, I try to be nice, for fear of appearing arrogant.

eleven

22:21:46

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I don't feel like seeing Hugg, even though my flight is in six hours. He didn't even offer to take me to the airport, which I would have done if he were traveling.

After last night, something changed. It could just be my lack of sleep, but I think it goes deeper than that.

Ever since I split up with Mr. Keller, I wanted to take my time off from men.

Men. I love them too much, but I have loved them too often and for far too long. My entire life since first grade could be retold in chapters titled Jim, Joe, Paul or Tyrone. I feel the need to write a chapter of my own. Only then, the next one…the one after my monologue could be a co-author book, something a little deeper than a newspaper article, something that could be eloquent prose!

Right, as though the universe caters to our ultimatums.

Mr. Keller, at the time, was a welcome antidote to Botticelli. He was the complete opposite, the other extreme. He neutralized Botticelli, got him out of my system, but he himself was too high a dose for me to handle.

Free of Mr. Keller, I felt like anything was now possible. I had the whole of me to start working on my "Big Plan". So who puts his foot in the door?

The Pope.

As holy as he may have been regarded in the Church of Sexiness, The Pope, with his daily sermons, became too much of an idol. I wouldn't say I wasted my time and energy while I was with him, but I could have done a lot of other, more productive things. Love is the worst thing that could happen to a man or a woman of business. If you want to hurt your opponent where it "doesn't", introduce them to someone irresistible. Not only will you win, but, ironically, you will be thanked for it.

Once the cult of The Pope became démodé, I found myself, once again, at the foot of that promising mountain, The Great Big Plan. The sun was rising and I had my good shoes on.

Hail the sun, and you'll be sent an eclipse.

Hugg.

Just as with The Pope, Hugg sauntered in unannounced. The whole episode was on the bottom of my list of expectations. It was like falling in love with a brother. Because, yes, at the beginning, I felt like I had finally found my big brother, the guy who would watch out for me, the guy who would grind the bad guys to dust and the guy in whom I could confide in.

Despite all our discussions of purity and other fictional Homo sapienesque abstractions, we turned out to be no more evolved than a regular serengeti episode on Discovery Channel.

Yes, it is crudely put. Yes, it is an unfair omission of poetry. Yes, it is a breach of my ethics. But it is also very much a colossal collapse of my ethics to promise to not fall in love and still pour love potions. I don't feel so good about it anymore, the passion is definitely lacking.

But passion is waiting for me outside, and it's a passion one finds on one's own. Let me correct that: the passion is right here within me, I can feel it struggling. I need to help myself to help myself. I NEED TO HELP MYSELF, TO HELP MYSELF.

This surely sounds like a bizarre method of resuscitation, as bizarre as making out with one's fist, but bizarre gets you places.

Bizarre is driving to work in the morning and seeing a guy on the side of the road (actually, it was in the middle of the road) bending over a spilled sack of grains and scooping them up with his hands. It makes you think. It makes you grateful. Because, shit, I've never had to do that in my life, so why am I complaining about waking up in the morning? Why am I not getting enough sleep to actually enjoy what I, honestly, really like to do? Why am I not moving forward fast enough where I have the potential to excel?

Baggage. A handbag full of disorganized chapters, of Jims, Joes, Pauls and Tyrones creating unnecessary drag on my Greased Lightning.

ten

09:19:01

I'm sleepy in Beirut.

My phone rings: Hugg.

"Where are you? Come and pick up your things from my car. I'm tired; I need to go sleep, yalla. Where are you? Hello? Hello?"

He's standing on the corner as I come out of Huvelin Street. He sees me, turns around and starts walking. "How old do you think I am? Never do this with me. Yalla, come take your things, I want to go home."

I was walking a few meters behind. His walk was brisk and punctuated with nervous shoulder shrugs. My shadow was long, and he would occasionally step on my head.

The cruelty of a teddy bear.

I felt silly and spoiled. I didn't intentionally walk away to get a reaction from him, but I was acting out against something that had happened that evening.

He spoke of his ex-girlfriends, girls I knew, the type of girls everyone knows, popular girls, personalities. My jealousy didn't come as a thought, but stealthily, in the way I held my chopsticks, the way I was searching for something to say, pretending to try to keep the conversation afloat. I knew jealousy was irrational, because it was a jealousy of shadows, of ghosts. Those girls, they were crazy, mad, he said, and I couldn't imagine him with none of them: with me he's so calm and contained, but maybe that is a sign of…

Boredom?

We left as the restaurant closed. I wanted to take a walk – the weather was lovely, and we were in Achrafieh, a place that I loved and was familiar with. He obliged.

At about the same time last year, Clooney and I walked the exact same streets, at about the same time, in about the same weather. And it was during that walk that I swore to never go for the good-looking ones, ever.

The crowd at Crystal was dispersing, my friends were busy dancing and I relished sitting by myself, observing the people from high above. I was tired, the alcohol, the high heels and the dancing had worn me out.

Suddenly, an apparition: Clooney. What a face, what posture and what a smile! I couldn't but smile back. He was moving towards me, I looked away so as not to jinx it.

"How can I not do something when I see a smile like that?"

He was still very good-looking from up close. He looked like a Hollywood star playing the charming Italian: clean shave, neat short hair with a slight peppering of white, a set of perfect teeth, tailored suit, crisp white shirt and a gorgeous laugh (the kind of laugh you'd hear over the phone and think of elegant cocktail parties in some penthouse overlooking Central Park).

We spoke for a while. He was in his early forties, though he didn't look it, called his father "Pappy", nearly got married at a very young age to a European girl and was suggesting we go have a cup of coffee some place.

My friends were getting ready to leave and I wasn't leaving without them. I didn't want to make it too easy for him; he must be used to instant house calls.

"I'd like to see you again"

I took his number. The act of someone taking down my number at a nightclub really puts me off. It's cheap. He walked out in front of us, like a teaser for a blockbuster movie. His walk was suave, well-paced and intriguing.

By now we were in the car, waiting for our drunken friend to finish his conversation with the little warde boy. Clooney approached the car window, drew his number in the air with his index finger and motioned for me to call him.

I got home at sunrise. It must have been a very beautiful, fantastical spectacle because I was inspired to live life to the fullest, to grab it by its balls, to seize the day and all that jazz.

What I did instead is send Clooney a message, suggesting that we go abroad for the weekend, a strange trip with a perfect stranger. At that moment, it felt like something beautiful and sincere.

Right now, it feels more like the past-tense of a DIESEL ad.

That afternoon, he replied, very enthusiastic about the idea and very keen on discussing it over dinner: tomorrow night, Centrale.

I was, indeed, very excited.

He picked me up in his delicious coupe, we both looked the part and it felt like a chapter from The Great Gatsby.

"I didn't want to call you, to hear your voice. I like the idea of not knowing."

He spoke my mind.

We turned heads as we arrived and the heads kept on turning back towards us throughout the night.

He talked a lot that evening, apologizing here and there for speaking too much, and then talked some more. He spoke well and of interesting things. I was charmed, except for his frequent bathroom breaks. That was when I thought of coke…maybe?

He kept on saying that I was cute. Cute. Cute. CUTE.

"What a cute little young thing. I find it very exciting."

"Gosh, you're cute."

My friends were out in Gemmayzeh, and I wanted to show off my arm candy (my arm candy, for a change). I got us lost, he took the wrong turn, was obliged to turn around, and while looking me in the eyes, stepped on the pedal to reverse. I felt so beautiful as I heard a scratch produce itself all along the left side of the car. He waved it off, smiling, and that right there was the most original romantic moment of my life.

My friends thought he was cute, but perhaps a little too old for me. I thought that they couldn't be more wrong.

He dropped me off to my car and then followed me until we had to split ways. I used to find the whole I-will-follow-you-in-my-car-even-if-I-live-on-the-other-end-of-the-world and call-me-as-soon-as-you-get-back thing really silly. It wasn't as though they could stop the world from being a nasty place. But with Clooney, I couldn't but appreciate the gesture.

Hugg is a little bit like that too. He gives the evil eye to guys who look at me, he calls me to make sure I get home safe, he tells me off for walking away into an empty street in the middle of the night…

Having walked half the distance to his car, I apologized. I could see he was smiling and my sense of relief was a huge wave breaking. He scolded me for a little longer, but it was just long enough to not become a lecture.

In fact, I appreciated his reaction; it's exactly what I need, a little bit of self-respect from his part and a lot of unwillingness to take my shit. Had he not reacted the way he did, he would have gone straight into the folder along with Mr. Keller.

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?

eight

20:24:03

I'm wide awake in Beirut.

What do you do when you can’t connect? With what do you fill the seemingly comfortable silence? When you look around and you are part of a mural, looking like an angelic fresco, with curls and sparkles and pastel clouds drifting by in your pupils, what do you say to yourself – I’m sorry says the elbow that poked you – to make it alright? Tu veux y aller?, Hugg asks. Non

The light is a skin falling soft on the wooden stools and the voices are a movie playing in the background and the thumbs twiddling beside you mean that you’ll be asked what is wrong and the music filling the void between your ears is the only answer.

The dress is pulled tight on my body, I can’t move. I’m in a gorgeous straightjacket that binds my body and thoughts. When does the body listen to the cloth it is wearing? When the mind itself wants a justification for its lack of purpose, does it turn to physical explanations? The jazz – tu ecris quoi, tu veux pas me dire? Non – the jazz and the dim lights and the barely visible brooks of free space flowing round the bodies call forth a vintage New Yorkais scene and perhaps it is in this specific invocation that I allow myself to feel disconnected amongst all these breaths and heartbeats.

Beards entangle to say hello and he wants to go.

We drive as I sing to “Walking After You” by the Foo Fighters under my nose. I am not trying to be discreet; I really dislike walking behind someone. I was walking behind him most of the night, and even if my high heels were partly to blame, we were never in a hurry.

We smiled at each other in the elevator. The silence was light, we kept on rising and we arrived at his door.

T’as un T-shirt?

Non...oui.

Je peux l’avoir?

Non...oui.

We lay next to one another in the darkness, my legs a light brown against the sheets. We stay like this for a moment long enough to call it a night. I run my fingers through his hair.

J’en peux plus.

De quoi?

Je suis tellement loin de la societe.

I remain silent because I understand, and he continues talking. He jumps out of bed and turns on the light. I close my eyes, the light is so violent and I feel harassed by the remnants of his abrupt movement.

He opens up his suitcase and pulls out a tattered brown envelope. We sit together looking through his childhood photos. He looked like a girl.

Je ne les montre pas a tout le monde.

He puts his arms around me and I close my eyes. I feel his arms, their largeness, their strength and the smoothness of his skin. I feel his beard settle into my shoulder. We do not move.

I imagine the weight of his arm enter mine, I imagine his beard on my chin, I imagine the length of my legs stretch out to the end of the bed and I imagine the shape of his head take form over mine. I lower my breathing and I imagine my body strong and masculine and I imagine it to be mine. I stroke my thoughts against my skin and turn them into a reality so close to my own that I can feel a soft and malleable bulge form between my legs.

He’s asleep by now. I turn towards him and nestle my face into the curve of his neck. His skin evaporates into a tempting aroma and I press my nose to scoop it all in. Chasing butterflies.

I want to wake him up now, so I draw his body, paint his lips, brush his beard and bite into his ear. He takes my hand with a hmmm and his breathing is regular.

I bite harder and cover my traces with butterfly kisses. His body starts to move and his neck stretches and I dance over his lips until I feel he’s between sleep and desire and I know I’ve won because he will choose me at any moment.

We kiss and roll and writhe and sigh and play with losing control. Desire glues itself to us and fires our loins, but we don’t verbalize our limits. When he’s about to jump the line, he gently turns me away from him and I tease him with my forceful hands, bringing him back to me. He pins my arms behind my head or pins me to the cold white wall to buy some time, to cool his fire, to cool mine…we struggle at the edge for over an hour until it feels like we have fallen and our bodies need to reenergize.

A week ago, in the same bed, during the same intense wrestling with our natures, we stopped to talk.

We shouldn’t.

I agreed. I realized that when we thought we were making love, we were in fact having sex. Our emotions and our relationship was worth more than sex. But it wasn’t love. Tenderness would be our new choreography. Tender was the night.

We fell asleep.

It was dusk, there was a building, there were two women and there was a secret I was keeping. I think I was writing about it and someone’s hand crept up and found it and I relished in being found out. I moaned with pleasure. It fired through my body and I was now aware of mud, humidity, heat and sliding fingers. There was a building, and there were two women on different floors and the elevator kept on going up and down until it stopped for a second and I felt his fingers caressing me and I didn’t understand it and I couldn’t care less. It wasn’t my fault.

When I recovered, I moved away and said:

Comment s’est arrive?

Je ne sais pas. J’etais en train de rever du pain. Je te jure je dormais.It must be the frustration resurfacing. Pause. You are so hot when you sleep, why can’t you be like this all the time?