By Mariyah
I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about the call from which I had just hung up. I really had missed Youssef. But I hadn’t planned on admitting it to him. In fact, I was annoyed at myself for caving so quickly. As soon as I had heard his voice, though, that was it. His voice always did something to me. It seemed to have the properties of an auditory opiate. The moment he spoke my name I dropped all barriers and drifted carefree upon its smooth tones. All the worries that had plagued me, before the conversation, drifted away. No one had ever had this kind of effect on me. A colleague once remarked that I “appeared impervious to romance”. It was surprising to her that I could write about it since I just “didn’t get it”. And she was right. It all seemed so superficial to me…until I met Youssef. But with him, romance was simply the icing on a rich and delicious cake, most of which I had yet to discover. The question was whether I would allow myself to really enjoy the taste. Later as I listened to the sweet words of his dedicated song, my resolve to remain respectfully distant was significantly weakened even further. I slept dreaming of what the following day might unfold.
—–
Sweet, summer, morning mists drifted through my bedroom window filling my airways with the combined scents of wildflowers, earth, and sea. I breathed deeply and rose to part the curtains away from the window so that I could enjoy the view. Strips of sunshine lit up the eastern sides of the whitewashed homes and pooled in the open fields as the rays climbed over the mountain peaks. I got a sudden urge to walk, maybe run, through the fields as far as I could go. I imagined myself in a floppy hat and flowing dress – yes, like a cliched romantic movie clip. I couldn’t help it. The place seemed to bring it out in me. Even though I was becoming increasingly aware of the heartbreak and suffocating traditions that crept through the lives of some of the people here, this view had such a contagious, warm, dream-like quality. I was easily swept away from a cool reality.
Quickly, so as not to lose my precious spark of spontaneity, I rifled through my dresses hung in the closet to find the most gracefully flowing one. I had brought one, packed at the last minute; floral, silk, cinched waist, low neckline. Perhaps more appropriate for an evening dinner date than a walk through a field, but at that moment I didn’t care. As I slipped it on, I felt a strange sense of freedom. I felt beautiful. I left my hair long and slipped on dainty sandals. I didn’t have the proper hat so I went without. As I opened the apartment door, the breezes caught my hair and caressed all of me tingling my skin pleasantly. I leapt down the stairs with a childlike giggle. I intended to head straight for the field but stopped abruptly when I became aware of someone sobbing nearby. I looked up and saw Yasmina leaning forlornly against her window and crying bitterly.
Sometimes people like to be left alone in their misery, but sometimes it is just impossible to turn your back.
“Yasmina?” I called up to her.
She shrunk away from the window and I instantly felt badly for my intrusion. But then she opened her door and motioned weakly for me to come up. I suddenly felt ridiculous in my florid dress but did not hesitate to help a friend who was so obviously in need. When I entered her apartment she was curled up, like a small child, in the corner of her sofa. I stood, motionless, in the doorway, not knowing whether to go to her or to give her some space.
“I love him, Amar. Oh god, how I love him.” she whispered between tears.
My heart filled with optimism but I erred on the side of caution. “Housam?”
“No, Amar. Yazan.” she looked at me pleadingly as if I might accuse her of treachery. “I loved Housam once, certainly, but that was so long ago. What am I going to do?”
It took everything in me to contain my glee. I sat on the edge of her sofa. “Yasmina, will you let me help you?”
“What could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know yet, but it would mean a lot to me to know you’ll accept my help when and if I can give it.”
Yasmina looked at me quizzically and then smiled sadly. “It is difficult to say no to you, Amar. Your eyes shine with such optimism – something I haven’t seen in so long.” She looked away toward the window. “I would do anything…” Her voice trailed off but I understood.
Just then, I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the building. Yasmina looked at me and smiled. She had heard it too.
“Go! Don’t keep him waiting if you don’t need to.”
I reached out and grasped her hand. Her meaning hit me forcefully.
“Go, Amar.”
“Just tell me one thing, Yasmina.” I needed to know. “Why do you love him?”
“He is me.”
I reeled with the complex simplicity. He is me. He is me.
—–
Once outside, I waved excitedly, “Youssef!”, and bounded down the stairs. Youssef looked at me over the top of his car and continued to watch me approaching him as he rounded the car to meet me. I fell into his embrace and he kissed me hungrily.
“Yous…sef!” I tried to speak between kisses. Youssef…Please…Listen!”
“Kiss me.” He insisted. I fell silent as his lips met mine again and tenderly but effectively spoke of everything that mattered at that moment.
© Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
I smiled at him, Dr. Youssef, who was looking at me so intently, and then turned back to my own table. I smiled again, but this time to myself. I had seen his type before. While involved in academic circles back home, I had encountered plenty of them. In stereotypical terms, he had all the appearance of the bumbling professor. I put his age at about mid-40’s. Unlike many men his age, he was blessed with a full head of hair, which was slightly ruffled and graying. He had the requisite professorial mustache and beard, that, to his credit, he kept neatly trimmed. His clothes, although, well pressed, still seemed somewhat disheveled or was it, perhaps, that they were out of style by several decades? His bifocal glasses hung from his hand which he rested coolly at his side. I surmised that he had removed them as he noticed the waitress, Yasmina, approaching his table. His shoes bore the mark of a man who paces. They were time-worn, brown leather shoes where the tip of the toe is slightly raised. I could imagine him in a classroom, brushing off some dusty, but treasured old copy of The Old Man and the Sea, and wearing a path across the front of the room while lecturing. Oh yes, physically, he fit the part perfectly.
Mariyah
abufares
