forty-nine

14:06:32

I'm sleepy in Beirut.

I read to you poems about little monsters; about little hearts ignored and rejected, about the cruel world that turns its back to anomalies. I read them out loud with a British accent and a Mexican tang gone wrong and you had nightmares about Mexican prisons and I don't know whether that comforts me to know that I can slip in between the pages of dreams that you flip through at night.

Furry from the waist up, I clambered beside you into bed. I don't know how it began, but we sealed ourselves in, me and you against the world, two anomalies that maybe fit. I say maybe, because it's hard to see past your suit of skin that I cannot but liken to glue, an all-purpose adhesive that can stick a glove unto a foot. Our lips separate like two fingers smudged with UHU, stubborn to yield to the fact that they belong to separate bodies. The wish to be one, the wish beyond any physical capability, the wish that would come true in a factory-size blender is becoming a frequent visitor in the back of my mind. If I were a Burton poem, I would blend us two together.

You spoke out against a lot and I thought of running. I know you need to run, but you anticipate walls before the start line. I think those walls you can run through, but you must start running soon. Abstract shit, huh? You light being, so much weighs you down and you never weigh it down on me. What grace you possess! You are graceful without moving, here laying still beside me in bed, talking about everything that should not go wrong for you in this world. I don't know why things should. I don't know why Oyster Boy had to die in the end, I thought he should turn into a merman instead. But does it matter what I think when he ends up as ground aphrodisiac powder anyway? I cannot make your world good, but I think it should be good to you. 

I see you now at work, reading what I wrote to you and tears well up in my eyes at the thought of it. If good things don't come your way, then dog exists instead. And I will be heartbroken as one would be in face of a lost cause. Too many lost causes...and I will sound like half a pound of Brie boy, but there is no need to be lost 'cause there is always a route, even in a routine. You can uproot or you can uproot the traffic lights that stall you.

[And I should probably do away with the tone of tha preacher man.]

I guess I just want you to be happy and I admit it is nothing but a selfish wish. You are already a pretty big problem. The kind of problem that stuffs a handbag with rehabilitation program brochures.

forty-eight

16:25:00

I'm sleeping in in Beirut.

Kinder surprise wrapers, lighters, dying cigarettes, finished drinks,
melting ice cubes, wrist games, electric feel, broken record, toilet
trips, do what you feel now.

Lumiere goes to the bathroom, two steps higher. My boots on the stool,
my left hand across my stomach clutching my right elbow, my left hip
uncomfortable from the unnatural twist in position.

Unnatural situations.

The place is filling up. Someone switched on the AC.

Lumiere writes: it's getting a warm feel of cold

He hands me the phone.

"Write more!", I insist "fesh khil2ak"

"Rawa2"

He doesn't like being told what to do. Natural reactions.

Naturally, I'd push further, but he disappeared to the bathroom. And
when he returned he divorced me from my phone with a kiss. My centre
dropped to the leather seat and rose back up to my throat.

Some guy moves through the crowd and they kiss.

"This is my brother's best friend"

His bent leg weighs down a slight bit. I want to take it further.

The room could be on fire, the red light, the smoke burning my eyes,
the heat of his leg, the lighter being lit, the cilia dying in his
trachea, the cilia choking in mine. Put out the fire with those wet
lips and I'll drop to the floor with those ashes. Easily. False
libations. The wine is swimming in me.

"Do you know what I want to do?"

"Dis-moi."

"I want to kiss you and smell you till the morning"

We were on the same level. I couldn't stop playing with his hair,
sometimes pulling harder out of frustration, but most of the time
dancing around his neck and earlobes.

"I have to go. I can't cancel out on them."

"And what are you going to do after?"

I leaned forwards, stretched my neck up and kissed the labyrinth of his ear.

"La2?"

"Lesh la2? Since when is a kiss a la2?"

"I thought you were trying to smoothen the goodbye."

And then I realized that kisses are probably worse than smiles. A kiss
ridden with guilt and planted in your lover's skin is acidic compared
to a guilt-ridden smile.

"I'll see you at my place?"

"That should be a statement not a question."

"I'll see you at my place."

I swam through the crowd and into the wet street. I walked briskly to
my car and headed towards the suburbs.

Three hours later, I was back. I parked my car close by; my umbrella
and shoes would be useless in the upcoming storm.

I saw a female figure head up the stairs that lead to Lumiere's. She
looked like his friend's girlfriend or just a friend of the
neighbour's.

On the landing, the light from beneath Lumiere's door fell on a human figure.

"Hi!" I said, thinking it was the girl I had met a couple of weeks ago

We knocked on the door simultaneously. Į found that bizarre, shouldn't
she leave the knocking to me since I'm the one who walks around in his
boxers? Her boyfriend must have been inside.

The door opened and I exclaimed, "Ta-daaah!"

But it was only Lumiere. I dropped my things on the sofa and went back
to my car for my forgotten phone.

When I came back she wasn't there.

"Who was that?"

"Where did you find her?"

"I didn't, I just saw her go up the stairs, thought it was..."

"She was in my school, we had a thing. The last time I saw her was
five months ago... She messaged me 15minutes ago asking me where I
was. I didn't reply. Bad timing."

"Perfect timing! She'll get the message. What happened when I left?"

"She asked who you were and I said you were..." he cupped the air to
the left of his chest.

"What did you tell her?"

"Khallas, ma 7a ilik!"

"Tell me, tell me!"

He swiveled round in his chair trying to escape the tight corner.

"Mabadi ilik."

"You told her I was your boob?"

It didn't matter. Those words don't matter. Titles, orders, names will
not add anything. Who needs to know? We know what we live, and it may
be called a boob for all I care.

Silly as it may sound, mystery prevails because.

forty-six

21:20:08

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

He got up from his chair and laid down in front of me. We were quiet and his kinetic gesture, a habit that I have come to know in the five days I spent living with him, called to me to move from where I was sitting. I got up and sat down beside him.

I leaned forward and we kissed. My lips entered into the chamber of his mouth and I sucked the air out of his lungs.

"Imagine you died like this!"

He smiled.

"How would you like to die? In your bed?"

"That's so boring. I would like to die doing what I love."

"Which is?"

"Come on, you know."

"Like?"

"Like, say if I was free-falling..."

"What else do you like to do?"

"Hundreds of things."

"Yalla,what are they?"

He must have felt cornered, nailed down. He hmmmmed.

"Tayyeb, give me seven."

Eating sushi was one of them. Number seven was surprising.

"I'd like to have a son."

"What would you call him? Or would you name him after you see him?"

"I don't know. I'd name him once I see him."

"But they all look the same when they're first born! And so ugly. Like aliens."

"Ugly? Are you serious? If I saw a baby now, I would cry."

I felt like I didn't deserve a womb. I actually felt the phantom of an inflated void in my belly. I felt it rise to my heart. I quickly tried to human myself with excuses such as "but it's only during the first few weeks, then they become adorable" or "I remember seeing my brother and sister in the hospital, they were red and wrinkled...but I loved them anyway". Like that rectified the situation. Writing it down has just made it THAT much worse.

Some people have asked me, "What is it that you want the most? What is that goal in your life?". Naturally, if I find babies ugly I should like a glossy career, laughter-glazed dinner parties, champagne bubbles in flute glasses, New York streets beneath the red soles of my Louboutins, a vintage Porsche in my garage, Danish furniture around my loft and a dozen of scruffy one-button extra unbuttoned flock of Javier Bardems ready to sail me, fly me and take me. Amen. 

A men? That is grammatically and logically incorrect. Or was that morally?

I do have to admit that I have daydreamed along those lines and I'm still young enough to think that if Faraya can have a Hollywoodian sign in their front yard, so can I - a Holy more Woody ally scripted life. But I do know better than to believe that such a dream will culminate in nothing but a large gaping Hole-in-the-wood-of-my-future-construct.

The truth is, rip me apart or believe me, my answer was and still is, "The only thing I know for sure is that I want to be a mother."

Just not yet. Most of the girls in my family have had children quite early, some at eighteen, others at twenty-two and even if that has been their personal choice, or in some cases not, uh-oh, I don't think it right at all. 

Even if they love their kids, they will tell you now that they came too early. These girls, life was harsh for them and they were impulsive, fleeing their domestic autocracy for another, fleeing the high altitudes of stacks of books for the white peaks of underwear of Mt. To-yet-iron, I feel for them. Who knows, had life happened differently for me, I could be a sleepless Um-Karim.

They might not have travelled or graduated from some honourable college or graduated at all, but they don't need any of that to give to a child. All kids needs is love.

Right. I'll buy that on a 70% sale. 


I want to be a mother because I want to do something better. To do that, I need to know what is better and I need to know what is worse. I need more time. I want to raise them to wonder, to think and judge for themselves and to be free of the current shackles of iShit. I need to learn more to teach well. But that's just me, with an empty womb and no child to know the reality of things. 

My best memory of mom and I was the time she took me on the back of a bike and while we were riding along the street, a screw came loose and the wheel rolled down somewhere into a ditch. We discovered a stream and pretty blue flowers. Her hair was lose and she wore high-waist blue jeans, and I was clashing in a yellow T-shirt and purple overalls, one tooth less behind a perfect smile. 

I learned that if she could fix a broken wheel, so could I.

forty-four

02:16:57

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

Lumière is in bed and I'm on his computer. 

"You should write something"

Should I? Who am I writing for now? I will write for the ghosts of my past who still haunt every precious corner. My precious ghosts who vanish as soon as I touch them.

I saw Botticelli tonight. 

"T'as vraiment changé. Douce.  Zen. T'es une femme. T'es une femme."

He was the same. I was myself now. We were different. No bitter history, just smiles and curled up legs on the sofa and the comfort of having known the before and the comfort of being able to be in the present. We hugged for a long time. No weapons of yesterday, no record books of who was left behind and who emerged unbruised, no dirty laundry. Fresh sheets, fresh shave, fresh stories to tell.

"Shoo betkhabrina?"

"I did something crazy. I went to London to meet a complete stranger."

"Khawta."

"It's amazing how much you can connect without actually meeting a person."

"And find that the reality is different?"

"Non, pas vraiment. The first few days were great, but then there was a cut." I motioned scissors. "The last day was horrible."

"Tu tombes toujours sur des malades."

But it takes two. We named them des cas spéciaux. I'm attracted to impossible cases. He's attracted to incompatible cases. What are we running from?

But it takes two. I'm an impossible case and he's incompatible and together we are im- and in- and we can stare at the ceiling and think of the harsh light that obliges us to be frank and awake to our reality. Botticelli's will always be an honest space where nudity is just another mask on the wall staring down at us.

But my reality is not a moment and it is not really there anymore for me to own. But there, I can own up to it because there is nothing to lose anymore. The battle has been forgotten and the battlefield is an overgrown patch of wild field where leaves of grass are fresh and soft on our soles.

My reality is in this room where it has set up camp. A nomadic reality that shelters us and gathers us underneath the sheets, sometimes a bundle of writhing limbs and sometimes a body with four legs and arms breathing with one pulse and sometimes two pairs of eyes that look into the distance and do not meet. To be separate in the together is the impossible, but it is the element that makes us compatible. Lumière is dark and darkness I have always found appealing. To be blind and undistracted, to concentrate on peeling away the bed linen, the clothes, the translucent skin, the Myocardiocyteal muscle tissue, the opaque bones, the thoughts, the secrets, until there is nothing but light.

forty-three

11:00:00

I'm awake in Beirut.

I run my fingers through my hair and his perfume untangles the nest that was built between the pillow and morning tongue slips. My naked wrist a nesting ground for his memory, a parcel of skin I will brush past my nose till dusk, till the yearning returns and the night blindfolds me.

We look at each other in the reflection of sunlight on the marble floor, intense and burning. Sleep still tugs on my eyelids until my blinks become closed doors and my skin receives him in compensation. How could a man be so softly dressed? A baby in a cloud shirt with bristles that prickle my cheek invite mother and mistress to the embrace. His tongue strikes a chord, his fingers seduce me with their melodious wanderings and the heat of his chest ignites a fire that I put out with my bleeding. My body, efficient and well-oiled for the chronic prospect of conception, flammable and fluent in want, diminishes behind red curtains. I don't think he'd want to paint. But I'd ravish on days like this.

His kiss is deeper and I sink further down below the elastic waistband. A wasteland of someone-said-forbidden tainted crimson, a landscape of always fresh days, a forest of billboards like pampered huggable babies pierced by javelins and lined for the public stuck in traffic. And I'm here in bed with another body that sweats, ejaculates and coughs, and the only difference is he bleeds when cut and I bleed despite it all. A scene from a biology book neatly laid out on glossy magazine paper that smells of nothing corporal. A corporate trick to make you sterile until you're nothing but a fresh breath, anti-perspiring, always fresh days, glossy, walking condom. 

Stretch. Stretch until our muscles quiver and then fall back into the trap of lethargy.

"I don't feel like going to work."

I felt like making love to you. Always.

forty-two

01:31:59

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

Lumière put out his cigarette.

"Should I turn off the music iza 3am tisma3e taba3ik? Ana feyit shower."

I can hear the water running and shampoo bottle lid popping. I occupy half the space of the sofa with my incorrect lotus position. And then I hear humming…who could guess that it's only been eight days?

Formalities, details, background checks, we skipped all that and got to the good part.

"If I park here, I'll have to wake up at 09:00 to pay the parking fee."

"You're staying?"

"Tab3an. Matafa2na?"

"Eh, bass, I wasn't sure…"

"That's why I was late, I was collecting my things."

"Woooo!"

Just to clarify, the woooo is the good part. It's a very good part. The sound of him brushing his teeth, the sticky kisses on the cheek, the bottle of Balkis orange juice I bought last night in his fridge, those too are included. That damn bottle of juice…

After dinner and the walking off of dinner around Hamra, in circles, in dizzying circles, I asked him whether I could spend the night at his place.

"Akid. You'll follow me?"

"Khallas, we'll just meet at your place."

"If you're hungry, get something now, I have nothing at home."

We got into our cars. On my way, I felt thirsty, so I decided to pass by MEDCO and buy some orange juice. I couldn't find my car keys (he's staring at me now as I type), I was only going in for a minute, so I locked the other three doors and ran inside. Nasee7a mini? Orange juice kills thirst and wets the anxious tongue that has begun to pulsate with the anticipation of a first kiss.

"Merci. Bonne soirée."

I pulled on the door handle of my car. Thuk. Nothing. The door doesn't budge. Somehow, the fact that the lock key locks all the four doors escaped me. Some kind of wonderful retarded 02:30:00 logic.

"Laaaa2! Shoo 7mara!"

The staff approached me to ask what was wrong. Embarrassed, but without a better alternative, I told them that I had locked myself out of the car.

"Ma3ndik spare?"

"Bi baiti. W il moufta7 el beit bi sayara."

"Ma3ndik 7adan bil beit?"

"M m."

Luckily, I had managed to memorize Lumière's phone number and asked for the man's phone to call him. Yes, my phone too was in the car.

"What's wrong?"

"Just come to MEDCO. I'll tell you when you get here."

He arrived within minutes.

"You should have seen how fast I was driving!"

"I'm sorry, I was too embarrassed to tell you over the phone…"

I explained what had happened with bites on the lip and guilty little girl glances. The only solution I could think of was to break the window. It wouldn't be the first time I'd file for that particular insurance claim…

Fortunately, even a contemporary damsel in distress is able to evoke the male hero. The teller had an idea. He made a phone call to someone who knew someone who knew someone who would know what to do.

While we were lingering beneath the white neon lights of the station, a white Tiida pulled over. Two oober-suspicious looking men climbed out, looked our way, exchanged a couple of comments that smelled of mockery and walked to the back of their car. From the trunk, they pulled out a metal pipe with a hooked end and started to move towards us.

"Moukhabarat", muttered Lumière under his breath.

"Really?! Wow."

The dude with a shaved head and hoody pulled out a set of keys from his pocket with his good hand – the other one was bandaged.

"Mara fete7 el Chevy fi", he proudly showed off a neat looking key in the light.

It didn't work and I let out a sigh of relief. I didn't want no multi-purpose key opening my car!

It had to be the pipe. For the next half-hour my car was rammed and fisted until it finally succumbed. No details of how-to-break-into-a-car will be posted here. Sincerest apologies.

Contrary to the urban myth, and thanks to my shorts, they wouldn't take any money. Must have been nice to do something good for a change.  Jokes aside, I owe these guys! Jokes aside, I would not want to cross paths with them again because as soon as their heads had popped out, I had a flashback from the movie "Eastern Promises".

Finally, we went back to his place. It felt a little like walking into a movie set for a second rehearsal. He sat down in the same chair and I sat down on the same sofa, but the quality of the space between us had changed. There was too much of it between us. The mutual awareness of something special knitting itself around us weaved us in with it, like a wool sweater tumbling and sighing in hot water for a week.

Beneath the warm covers and the warmth collecting in the pocket of air between neck and shoulder blade, we sunk into a deep sleep ignorant of the coming morning that was to become an Achilles' heel.

forty

20:16:16

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I like it on the floor. That's where I dropped it. I went into my room to pick up the pieces of morning. His negative was printed in the pillow. His smell cast a positive spell. Something to be taken in.

It's something to respond to a confession without Machiavellian intentions. Makes one wonder. What is it about integrity that makes it hard to believe in? 

Was it hard to believe that two hours of tête–à–tête were enough to result in Lumière coming to pick me up from the airport? No. I would have done the same. To walk out into the sterile light of the airport and be greeted by someone you barely know, makes all the electric wires in Beirut turn into Christmas lights. A gesture so beautiful in its simplicity that it could rival a Dali. Because standing in front of a Dali made my eyes well up with tears. Even though tears are an unusual parallel to big wide smiles, the trigger was the same. The witnessing of a reverie.

Lumière reckons I've quite a bit of a dreamer in me. I suppose he is right and I suspect I should be grateful that life has spoiled me. It has yet to choose to prove me wrong. It could happen tomorrow; there's a very thin line between dreams and nightmares. Regardless, we have to sleep nonetheless.

And I was tired, on the verge of collapse really. Yet somehow, I made it through the day. Bless innate coping mechanisms! 

"I'll be free in 2 hours"

"You'd end up tucking me in. Which would be nice."

"Yes it would be nice"

"Well, if you're willing to be a little girl's pillow and nightmare warrior... -the innocent tone intended! But only if you're on the brink of exhaustion and just as unwilling as I for this to turn into another predictable post!"

"Did you ever think that maybe I need a warm pillow more than u do?"

"Are you saying I'm self-absorbed? You wouldn't be wrong. A bientôt, alors."

"We all are in a way..."

"Would you please bring with you a bottle of either orange or grapefruit juice?"

"Sure, gotta go home first...U sure u can wait?"

"Don't worry about it"

It was past midnight when the doorbell rang. Cinderella was in her PJs. PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke were on when I opened the door.

There was peach, apple, mango and pineapple.

"Lik shoo lebanese inta!"

"They didn't have grapefruit or orange juice. Tsk. Come on."

In the kitchen, there was no need for words now. 

We sat in silence. 

He looked me, 

in the eye directly. 

I met him, 

I think it was Wednesday, 

the evening. 

The mess we're in.

Sleep evaded us. I thought about the awkwardness that was to come. Twenty-four hours later and we were back on the balcony, sleepless in Beirut, surrounded by silence and the neighbours' kitchen lights. This time round, he had my name.

"Nice to meet you."

We held out till 02:45. We laid in the darkness, arms barely touching. And we spoke, because the "barely" kept our eyes wide open. Silence would slip in at intervals. I could hear his shoulder against mine. Made me think of the white noise of crisp plastic bags in elevator silence. 

I asked for his arm, put it around me and we fell asleep.

He was already awake, tight against the wall, when the construction works woke me up.

"Did you sleep well?", I asked.

"I woke up as soon as there was light. You were snoring."

Epic.

thirty-nine

03:13:55

I'm sleepless in Dubai.

I left everything for the last minute. I packed my bags three hours before my flight, called a cab, picked up a package, picked up an envelope and stumbled into the airport, through the metal detectors, through the cloud of perfume in the duty free area, through the echo-friendly corridors and unto the plane. The urgency of those couple of hours distracted me from the obvious: I was reluctant to leave.

I had no reason to leave Beirut. The trip came to me like a sudden jerk pulling me out of bed two hours before the alarm was due. I wanted to sleep in, to snooze, to let the dream of being back-in-Beirut develop and suck me into a deceptive reality. Instead, an intermission was imposed upon me. 

To help me better remember the dream, I left Beirut as one would leave their room in the morning. Undone, unzipped, unmade. The strings of the last few days I left, untied. I did not sleep much either. An hour, maybe two.

"Ah, I would've joined you"

"Hmm am still here, my 3rd drink, a bit dizzy..I told you I'm here the minute I arrived"

"1. I wouldn't want to intrude 2. I am uninvited 3. You should shout louder."

"u won't intrude my solitude anyway. Told you "indirectly", I never shout loud :)"

I had to. I rummaged through my drawers. There was nothing relevant, nothing sleepless, nothing Beiruti, so I went for the bright and conspicuous: my favourite red die. I threw on some clothes, jumped into the car and went off into the night.

This is where Serendipity started to get creative. My phone buzzed. Unknown Dubai number. 

"So...yea...you know Mr.Keller?"

Worrying at first glance, transparent at second. I was sure this was Capitalyst exploiting his new foreign number. 

"I'm wondering how you made the connection. Till when are you in Dubai?"

"Well, he recognized me as someone you'd once spoken about...and I'm here wondering WTF did you tell him? Until Saturday morning."

"Plans tomorrow night? Pick you up from where?"

I hadn't seen him in a long while now and the fact that we would both happen to be in Dubai at the same time was a fun enough coincidence to call for a reunion. We had a very nice evening together, extricating the Mr. Keller factor, filling up the gap between now and when we last bumped into each other in front of the traffic light in Downtown and discussing possible adventure ventures.

My phone was ringing. Imaginary Extraordinary Him. Wow. The familiar ringtone, his photo, his name, two weeks of dead and bitter silence and the need to sweeten it. I answered.

"I thought you wouldn't pick up."

"What's on your mind?"

"I've been so busy. I've only just had the opportunity to digest what happened in London."

Soon enough, the connection started to break up. Call ended. 

"Don't do this. Don't fuck with me. No, no, no. This is not happening", I said out loud into the shell of my car. Sometimes, strength needs to be punctuated and weaknesses punctured.

I parked. It was a two minute walk from the pub. As I swam through the humid air, a rumble and a shine caught my eye. Non! Clooney's delicious coupe. I recognized the number plate and he sure as hell did not recognize me walking in my jeans and flats in the shadows of Gemmayze. Glad to see he is still roaming the night! 

I climbed up the stairs and walked into the pub. I immediately spotted Lumière to my right, even though he was half hidden by the potted plants. I sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of white.

It so happened that there was no WiFi and I could not come up with a good enough opening line to interrupt his conversation. I called up Belle and she took it from there.

"I left you a red die on the bar", she sent to him.

I waited impatiently. Those five minutes felt like hours. I could not hold it much longer and I was running late as it was. I motioned to the waiter, "Could you do me a favour?"

At that point Lumière got up and went to the bar. I watched the waiter approach him and turned for the exit. As I walked out of the building, Tinkerbell from Peter Pan flashed before my eyes and at the thought of having sprinkled some magic dust on another stranger's evening, I skipped out of the alley and unto the street. I never stopped to look back, but my ears were fine-tuned for the most distant footsteps. His shadow never appeared.

"U could've stayed..."

"I told you I was slippery. I'll want it back soon."

"y did u run?"

"I didn't run, I walked. Are you still there?"

"Nope, am home stranger. U back home I suppose?"

"I'm at a friend's. That's why I left, I was already late! Goodnight?"

"Shower then goodnight. y?"

"I'm getting ideas. Ignore them."

"Such as? Now that u ve told me, how can i ignore them?"

"I want you to be sleepless with me."

"I can arrange that I suppose..."

"So unsure. So hesitant."

"Come on..."

"?"

"not unsure. not hesitant."

"Are you sure? So far, I've been moving the world all along. Your turn."

"yes"

"Move the world."

"i am at this moment."

"I don't see it moving. Roll the die. If it's 6...   If not, it's not time yet."

"it s 2"

"7ayete! I love the honesty."

":)"

"Truth hurts."

"y? I disagree."

"I have a big flaw. When I want something I want it NOW. Hence the comment. But ultimately, truth is the healthiest thing one can pass on to someone else."

"it's so much easier than that"

"How easy?"

"as much as you can think of...believe me"

"I think you just beat me in "slippery". Why didn't you follow the strange rabbit down the rabbit hole?"

"u were a few floors down..and i wasnt sure it was u..( now i am)"

"Anyway, I was hoping to add a little magic to your evening, nothing more. I was hoping you would react quicker, but my wine finished, my friends were waiting, and the clock was about to strike midnight...so I left my "glass slipper" and slipped away :D"

"maybe u were just making a new post who knows..or maybe...ur sleepless...u should come"

"Wrong. I'm hungry."

"I have labneh :p"

"Do you have tea?"

"Yes"

"Put the kettle on, quick, I'm sleepy. How do I find you?"

It's 03:00. What the fuck am I doing? But I'm doing. I get in the elevator with Diagonal. There's a wad of $1000 and a Mercedes car key resting on the hand-rail. 

"Non! Let's just count the money for the sake of it."

The lift stops at the 4th floor and a certain Miss Lebanon X opens the door looking distraught.

"That's a whole lot of money. You should be more careful.", I said.

She takes the money and the keys and closes the door.

"What the fuck was that? A transaction?"

Diagonal and I come up with a number of alternatives to explain the story, but seeing that the subject is already under public scrutiny, we settle for the crack cocaine one.

I'm doing. I'm actually doing. 

"I'm in front of... Now what?"

I sit in my car. Something moves in the alleyway, a figure. I'm doing? Doing. I get out and walk towards him. There's something cosy in the way we move towards each other. His cheek is warm.

I step into his apartment, out of the darkness and into the light. Lumière. I look at him. In the light, away from his FCBK discretion. I look at him, from up close, without leaves in the way. He has a smile that transforms his face into a second face that speaks of different things. I remember that, but the memory of his face is lost. And with that, everything that took place is fading into a select catalogue of details and exchanges. There was a labneh sandwich and lukewarm green tea and relief when he pulled out his Lucky Strikes and his height and his quiescence and the yellow light in the room and the familiar feeling of being in Beirut but a thousand miles away. His lovely apartment quickly took on the quality of a sealed, safe bubble, a quality that I first came to know at Botticelli's. But unlike my visits to Botticelli's or Hugg's or Pope's or insert-name-here, there was no music playing in the background. Lumière was a minimalist in speech as he was in his messages, but his comfort with silence blew me away. We spent more than two hours in that room and there was no music, no television, no computer screen, no telephones ringing and no uncomfortable silence, no dead air.

On the contrary, the air in the room stirred like a dialogue between the sea and the shore. My uttered sentences crashed into the space between us with exaggerated confidence, the sprays of animated intonation and residual gestures trying to gnaw at the smooth surface of Lumière's glistening sands. Impenetrable. With every burst of conversation, the precariousness of the situation and his manner of speech, would send my mind thrashing as my words splashed the room, dissipated, curled up in apparent failure and were then beckoned back into the deep blue sea by a stealthy pull that was discrete, but definitely his.

I loved listening to him speak. His words were nothing poetic, nothing exceptional, but meant for me. They felt precious. Whether timid or skeptical, or intentionally minimalist, his quiet presence came off as soft and sincere. I could've stayed there till dawn and past sunrise, but I considered the possibility of being unable to read him well, that even though he wasn't fidgety or yawning, he might have had enough of this particular dégustation. I didn't want to impose, even though I was close to certain that I wasn't.

I snapped my fingers. I needed to hear a cue. He accompanied me to my car. His cheek was still warm.

These moments are delicate. They are beautiful and refreshing and unexpected. They are light. So light in fact that they have no place on the ground. Like clouds. Ephemeral, unearthly, ethereal. Perfectly intangible. Easily inflatable. DIY castle in the sky.

I've been revisiting that moment. I can remember the room. I can see the outline of Lumière. But I cannot see his face. He cannot see mine. He cannot say my name. I try hard to remember and everything sinks in deeper, but still no face.

I've been back too many times. And it's a long trip from there to Dubai. I wish I stayed.