Just for one day out of my years of existance, I wish I was a tiny, smart, strong fly, so I could buzz over the twinkling lights of the country, past the zipping cars on the streets, through the narrow streets, and finally land at your doorstep.
I wish I could fly into your house; through an open window, an open door, or even through a keyhole large enough to squeeze me through.
I wish I could see the inside; see how colorful or drab, how luminous or dim, how animated or dull, how neat or messy, how funny or sad life is for you on the inside.
I promise, I won't be a pesky fly. I won't bother you while you're eating or sleeping or studying, or even when you watch TV. I just want to watch.
I want to watch you eat and drink and smile. I want to smell what you're eating and silently pray to God that you enjoy every single bite from the first to the last, and every sip from the brim of the glass to it's bottom.
I want to see and hear your laugh while you're watching TV or talking with your family. I want to watch what you are watching and absorb the bubbling laughter and silly snorts that escape your lips everytime something makes you smile.
I want to sit on the headboard of your bed and watch over you while you sleep. I want to make sure that the covers are tucked tightly around your strong arms and that the pillow beneath your breathtakingly angelic face is fluffed to your liking. I also want to hear you recite your mu3awethat, followed by your soft yet heavy breathing.
I want to see you first thing in the morning and the last thing at night.
I want to listen to what your parents tell you, or what you tell them. I promise, I won't intervene or sting them when they say anything to hurt or bother you; I just want to listen.
I want to perch myself in the strap of your gym bag and be with you when you go to work out. I want to tuck myself in between the criss-crossed safety of your shoelaces so that I can be with you from start to finish, to make sure you don't get hurt and to make sure that you drink plenty of water. I don't care if it gets too hot or too stuffy or too smelly; I just want to be with you.
I want to ride with you in your car and listen to your favorite songs, and listen to your sweet voice singing them. I want to follow you into your diwaniya to hear what you and your guy friends talk about, and to make sure if you've had your dinner or not. I promise, I won't annoy you - you won't even know I'm there.
I just want to see, hear, smell, and touch you, and absorb everything that goes on around you.
Because maybe then I'll understand.
And maybe you'll understand how much I love you.
I wish I was a fly, just for one day.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Year Of The Lover (Pt. 33)
Jawhara almost spit her tea back into the cup, but wouldn’t dare contaminate the creamy milk tea with the traces of White Mocha that still remained in her mouth. She quickly swallowed the hot tea, all the while burning her throat. “Shloon??” Jawhara asked in disbelief.
“Well, dagait 3ala rifeejti Wafa2.. Kanat tishte’3el wiyana bil KOC. Sa2alt’ha 3an Um Mbarak oo 6la3at lail7een itkalemha. Fa 5athait raqamha min Wafa2 oo dagait 3alaiha. This week inshallah, the both of them are coming for dinner,” Jawhara’s mom explained.
“Oh.. My.. God. Mita?!” Jawhara almost screamed with excitement – this was huge! She was meeting Mbarak’s mom! This will undoubtedly take their relationship to a whole new level.
“Giltich this week, mama!” Jawhara’s mother giggled at her daughter’s excitement.
“Can Fajer come?” Jawhara asked, hoping that her best friend would be there for such a wonderful and exciting event in Jawhara’s life.
“Of course,” her mother smiled, rubbing Jawhara’s back.
In her mind, Jawhara was already planning the perfect outfit, with the perfect hair, and the perfect shoes – she wanted to be absolutely flawless for Mbarak’s mother. She then wondered if she should tell Mbarak about it. ‘No,’ she bit her lower lip, ‘I wouldn’t want him to think I was crazy.’ She immediately pulled her phone out of her bag to call Fajer, and as if Fajer was telepathic, her number was already flashing on Jawhara’s mobile.
“Intay wainich??” Fajer almost screamed into the phone.
“Bilbait tawni wa9la! Umbay, Fajoor; you’re not gonna believe this,” Jawhara’s smile spread across her cheeks.
“Shino? Shino? Goolay!” Fajer asked excitedly.
“So,” Jawhara began, tucking her legs under her thighs. “My mom got in touch with Mbarak’s mom and apparently she’s coming over for dinner this week!”
“No. Freakin’. Way,” Fajer stammered.
“Way! I’m so nervous wai3; already ba6ni yi3awerni!” Jawhara giggled, rubbing her hand gently over her abdomen.
“Wee 3ad, don’t be nervous! You know how you get when you’re nervous! Ta3feseen ildinya 3alaina!” Fajer warned, tucking herself in between the thick layers of her goose-down duvet.
“Please, don’t remind me,” Jawhara rolled her eyes as Fajer rattled off the previous events that stamped Jawhara’s nervousness as a curse of clumsiness – tripping over her own feet at weddings, walking into chairs at over-crowded restaurants, spilling crimson red tea on her aunt’s silk carpets during one of the many estiqbals she’d attended. Jawhara listened and let her tongue dart against the edges of her teeth, the scraping feeling soothing the milk-tea burn. “I got it; walla fahamt!” she cried, chuckling at her embarrassing moments.
“Ee, 3ad, hallah hallah!” Fajer concluded, anxiously waiting for the code word from Jawhara to signify that there were juicy details to be unraveled.
As if Jawhara was reading her mind, she sneakily said, “Yes, I have your earrings.”
“Ya shagool,” Fajer bolted upright in her bed. “9i3day oo call me and tell me everything!!”
“Yes, I’ll bring them tomorrow,” Jawhara played along with her encrypted message, feeling her mother’s suspicious glare burning her cheek.
“Now!” Fajer demanded excitedly, crossing her legs underneath her bed covers and pounding a cavity into the hollow in her lap.
As soon as Jawhara hung up the phone and excused herself to run up the stairs, Jawhara’s mother eyed her apprehensively, raising her eyebrows. “Ma 9arat hal tarachi – kil ma tkalmeenha tgooleenlaha ‘I have your earrings’? 3aib, mama, a’3rath ilbnaya lazim itrideenhum hathi amana!”
Jawhara tried not to burst into laughter and blow her own cover – she and Fajer needed to come up with a new code phrase. She kissed her mother’s forehead gently and said, “Don’t worry, yuma; ana oo Fajoor ma bainna shay.”
“Weeeh,” her mother relented, sipping her steaming milk-tea, “Ma 3eraft lekum, walla!”
Jawhara dashed up the stairs like she was training for the Olympics, and quickly shut the door of her bedroom behind her and locked it; she was almost certain that Joori would barge in at any moment and force Jawhara to play dress-up with her, and it was not the time for games. She redialed Fajer’s number, and as always, Fajer picked up on the first ring.
“Tell me everything,” Fajer pushed the mute button on the remote control, giving Jawhara her undivided attention. In a matter of minutes, Jawhara had described every particular detail of her date with Mbarak, ending her long-winded sentences with a recap of the perfect kiss.
Fajer’s jaw dropped and she stifled a chuckle, “Hathaila shino – mitafqeen inna they’re both gonna kiss us today?”
“Shiftay shloon? Well at least that’s one awkward step out of the way,” Jawhara smiled as she pulled off her bracelets. A hint of Mbarak’s cologne swept into her nose, and she pulled the bunched bangles closer to her nose, deeply inhaling the scent. “Mmmm; don’t you just love it when your clothes smell like him?”
“7adda, but my clothes smell like rain today,” Fajer eyed her half-full laundry basket across the room. If there was anything she hated more than a fun date ending, it was having the clothes washed of all the traces – smells, bits of sand, damp dots where the rain had made brown gashes on her camel sweater dress. She sighed and listened to Jawhara ramble about how excited she was that she was going to meet Mbarak’s mother.
“By the way, we need a new code word; my mom is starting to think I’m a thief,” Jawhara brought the conversation to an end. Fajer’s laughter filled her ears, and after their last quips and comments, they hung up from each other.
Jawhara thought twice about calling Mbarak; she didn’t want to seem clingy or needy, especially while he was at the diwaniya enjoying time with his friends. She placed her mobile a considerable distance away from her ear, in case it rang while she was asleep. After carefully reciting her mu3awethat, Jawhara tucked her fluffy duvet around her shoulders and drifted off into a light sleep. At approximately 2 AM, Jawhara felt her phone vibrate through the springy mattress, and Mbarak’s loud ringtone filled the air: “7u’6oorik Sayidi 6aaa’3i Wuho Yi6’3a 3alay! Ana Min Hawlat Il-Maw-”
“Hala 7abeebi,” Jawhara sighed groggily into the phone, squinting at the bright white light of her phone.
“Jawharti nayma?” Mbarak’s loud voice almost shattered her eardrums. The shouting voices behind him were audible, and he wanted to make sure that Jawhara heard him, even though he was standing outside.
“Ee.. Sh’hal ez3aj? Shfeek it9are5?” Jawhara demanded to know, trying to frown away the sudden migraine that was throbbing at her temples. It always happened every time she was awakened abruptly, and with Mbarak, the case was no different however much she loved to hear his voice.
“Asif, 7abeebti; Il-shabab yi9ar5oon da5el ga3deen nil3ab kout. 9ooti 3aali 9a7?” he said, and Jawhara could hear his wide goofy grin eating up his face.
“Wayid,” Jawhara chuckled as she reached up to her forehead and moved her thumb in circular motions.
“Asif, 7ayati,” Mbarak apologized again, this time in a much softer tone of voice. “Bes dag at6aman 3alaich 6ela3tay nayma – ana mo gayelich itdigeenli gabel la tnameen?”
”9ij? No, you didn’t,” Jawhara smiled, rolling over onto her stomach.
“Imbala, Joojti; chaykay your messages,” Mbarak assured her.
Surely enough, the tiny unopened envelope icon beamed proudly at the top of Jawhara’s screen. She crumpled her face at the icon angrily. ‘Dayman agoom 3ala 9oot il-message, bes today you chose not to wake me? 9ij telephone sakka,’ she thought.
“Sorry 7abeebi, ma shifta,” she felt her tense headache winding down. “Wai3, ba6la3 wiya Reemo bacher.”
“Ee, ma7ad 6aggich 3ala eedich oo gallich 6el3ay wiyaha,” Mbarak scoffed, and continued to ramble incoherently about how he thought it wasn’t a good idea and such.
“Well it’s kinda late to break any plans, Barook,” Jawhara sighed, trying hard not to roll her eyes. There’s nothing she hated more than being told what was right and wrong.
“Inzain shrayich ayi?” Mbarak suggested quickly.
“Tiyi wain? Wiyana? Allaaaah fog ma she tried to eat you like an animal, you wanna come with us to the Avenues?” Jawhara’s voice escalated into the darkness of her room.
“Laa yubaaa! Min 9ijjich ayi wiyakum? La; ya3ni akoon mawjood hnaak. Min b3eed lai b3eed. Shrayich?” Mbarak amended his suggestion, digging his fist into the kangaroo pocket of his Polo sweater. The pointed folds of the Caribou Coffee receipt poked his knuckles, and he quickly pulled out the small white paper and smoothed the wrinkles against his thigh with his hand.
“Itha chithee, okay,” Jawhara agreed with a grateful smile – she appreciated having Mbarak around all the time.
“Zain,” Mbarak grinned. “Inzain 7abeebti, ana badish da5el al7een ag3ad ma3a ilshabab shway ba3dain arid ilbeit. Tabeen shay?”
“Salamtik, Barooki,” Jawhara snuggled deeper under her blanket, enveloping herself in its warmth.
“Te9be7een 3ala 5air, Jojo,” he said softly, and discreetly blew her a small kiss. She blew a kiss back and they said their goodbyes.
The next morning, Jawhara was awaken by a loud thump followed by a shattering noise and heart-wrenching cries. Startled, she sprang up out of bed and bolted to her bedroom door only to find Joori sitting helplessly in the carpeted hallway, the thick salty tears pouring out of her eyes and splashing onto her cheeks.
“Joori!” Jawhara cried worriedly, scooping her baby sister into her arms. The evidence of the thunderous noise, her mother’s prized Venetian glass vase, lay splattered on the carpet in colorful shards, like a rainbow that had been severed into random shapes glistening in the soft morning light. “What happened??”
Joori’s sobs escalated into a melancholic wail mixed with incomprehensible words meant to explain what happened. Jawhara soothed her baby sister with kisses and strokes on her soft hair, the sweet smell of Baby Johnson’s shampoo creeping into her nose. Joori’s cries subsided, leaving only her shuddering breath to interrupt her explanation. “M-m-mama and R-rose ra7aw jam3iya-a-a. Ana y-yait for J-j-jawhara and this one fall!” She pointed at the culprit – a long treading table-cloth that must’ve entangled itself in her tiny feet, causing the vase to topple over and break. “M-m-mama will be so angry,” Joori concluded before another fit of sobs racked her chest.
“Awww,” Jawhara kissed the side of Joori’s face, “Don’t cry, 7abeebti Joori; Mama won’t be so angry. Are you hurt? Ako dam?” She inspected the soles of Joori’s feet and her short stumpy arms.
“No,” Joori mumbled sadly, burying her face in Jawhara’s chest and wrapping her arms around her neck.
“Ashwa,” Jawhara smiled as she picked Joori up and went inside her bedroom. Her phone was ringing off the hook by then, and she went to pick it up. “Aloo?”
“Hala ib7ayati,” Mbarak’s voice followed by his shifting around in bed filled her ears.
“Hala oo ‘3ala,” she smiled; she was already getting used to hearing his voice every morning.
“Shloonich? Ga3da?” Mbarak asked.
“Ee ga3da, baby – Jooriyo kanat bitdish ‘3urfiti chan it6aye7 my mom’s vase oo enkesar oo gamat tabchi. Ga3adt 3ala 9ya7ha,” Jawhara explained while stroking Joori’s tear-stained face.
“Ya 7abeeeeebti!” Mbarak cooed. He loved kids, and more than that, he loved it when older sisters took care of their younger sisters.
“Mino 7abeebtik? Ana wala ihya?” Jawhara asked playfully.
“Ihya; shabi feech intay?” he teased with a chuckle. “3a6eeni 7abeebti 5al akalemha!”
“Hey!” Jawhara laughed, knowing he was joking around. She handed the phone to Joori.
“Mino? Mama?” Joori asked worriedly, her eyes widening.
“No; bes goolay ‘aloo’!” Jawhara instructed in a whisper.
“Aloooooh?” Joori put on her best daloo3a voice for Mbarak, which he thoroughly enjoyed.
“7abeeeebti Joooori!” he said happily, “Shloonich?”
“Zaina,” she replied breathlessly, “Mino?”
“Ana Mbarak,” Mbarak replied as he sat up in his bed and turned on his lamp. The bright light blinded him, but upon hearing Joori’s adorable voice, he didn’t mind.
“Ana Joori,” she said almost robotically. “Inta wainik?” she asked, and Jawhara laughed at her sister’s nosey behavior. She learned to ask “inta wainik” to everyone, even girls, because Jawhara’s mother asked the driver this every morning on the phone.
“Ana bilbait,” Mbarak chuckled, pulling his fluffy blanket off his almost-naked body. “Mara7 tis2ileeni ‘shloonik’?”
“Shloonik?” Joori replied quickly and rather quietly, ashamed at her lack of manners.
“Ana zain. T7ibeeni?” Mbarak asked slyly. He had a reputation of getting little girls to fall in love with him – his younger girl cousins could never detach themselves from him during family get-togethers.
“Eeeeh, a7ibik,” Joori replied, much to Mbarak’s satisfaction.
“Hey, hey, hey! Yalla 3ad, a’3ar!” Jawhara cried over Mbarak and Joori’s childish conversation. “3a6eeni the phone, Joori.”
“Bye, Mbarak,” Joori spoke into the phone, waving her left hand as if he could see her.
“Bye-bye, 7abeebti Joori,” Mbarak laughed. “Ya 7ilwa,” he told Jawhara as soon as she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hala galbi; inshalla ma t’3azloon ba3ath wana mawjooda!” Jawhara pouted.
”Shasawi ba3ad; tloomeeni?” Mbarak raised his eyebrows and stifled a giggle.
“La walla; ma aloomik,” Jawhara replied as she kissed Joori on her plump rosy cheek.
“Inzain, sim3eeni,” Mbarak began, “Mita t5al9een min ilmaynoona?”
”Maaadri, walla,” Jawhara wondered, ”Around 3? Madri. Shay chithee. Laish?”
“Inzain, lama t5al9een minha, diggay 3alay. Abi awadeech mukan.”
“Wain?” Jawhara’s curiosity sparked her attention.
“Intay bes 5al9ay oo kalmeeni,” Mbarak replied with a grin.
“Inshalla,” she smiled, and when they hung up, she called Fajer to make arrangements of how the day would go. Fajer was to meet Reem and Jawhara at the Avenues in 2 hours, leaving them both ample time to get dressed. Jawhara opted for a long white tunic and a long black cashmere cardigan, paired with maroon leggings and black riding boots. Her hair, as always, was left in a tousled mess that always looked artfully arranged. On her way out of her bedroom, she grabbed her favorite Olive Oyl Moschino scarf, just in case it got too chilly.
“Mama, ana ba6la3,” Reem called to her mother after she’d finished getting dressed and had given Jawhara an adequate time to get ready.
“Wain 3ala Allah?” Huda asked, her head peering from the top of the staircase. She was completely dressed from head to toe in her sparkly diamond earrings and matching necklace, with a neatly pressed Adolfo Dominguez skirt suit, with matching high heels.
“Ray7a Avenues wiya Badriya,” Reem lied, knowing that if she told her mother that she was going out with Jawhara, the supposed enemy, she’d never hear the end of it.
“Shloon bte6le3een wana gaylatlich binroo7 nit’3ada wiya Um 6areq?” Huda placed a hand firmly onto her hip.
“Ee, Mama; I have nothing to wear! Aroo7 Avenues alageeli something nice oo I’ll be back. Mani m6awla,” the rope that was Reem’s lie continued to unfurl from it’s tightly wound coil.
“Ee 3ad dawreelich shay emratab,” Reem’s mother twisted her hand for emphasis, “Chood Um 6areq ta5thich 7ag wild’ha!”
‘7asha, jan6a; mo bintich – parading me around for everyone to see,’ Reem thought bitterly to herself. Her mind flashed back to the lunch with Mbarak – she’d always thought Mbarak to be cute, and though she wouldn’t mind having him, she felt it was time to break free of her mother’s trap and just start living for herself. ‘Maybe there’s someone out there better than Mbarak; just for me.’
The drive to Jawhara’s house was long, mostly because Reem had no definite sense of direction when it came to Kuwaiti streets. Though she’d gotten her license a couple of years ago without any was6a or complications, Reem preferred the back seat of the family car with her driver chauffeuring her everywhere she went. When she’d finally reached the driveway of the neat house in Qur6uba, Reem called Jawhara and told her that she was outside.
Jawhara wrinkled her nose at her mother and fumed for the millionth time, “I can’t believe you gave her my number, Mama.”
“Ishfeeha ya3ni?” Jawhara’s mother raised her eyebrows incredulously at her daughter; she couldn’t understand these young-adult situations for the life of her – as far as she was concerned, she was just doing a favor.
“Madri, Mama, ya3ni ma arta7laha!” Jawhara teased her hair with her fingers and straightened out her draped scarf. She looked herself over one last time before making her way to the door.
“Give her a chance, ya mama,” Jawhara’s mother pleaded, sensing that Jawhara and Reem may get along quite nicely.
“Fine,” Jawhara mumbled, blowing her mom a quick kiss before heading out onto the driveway. She spotted Reem in the small blue Lexus convertible that she’d recognized from the days at the chalet. She opened the passenger door and seated herself, kiss-kissing Reem and letting the formalities roll. To Jawhara, it seemed that Reem was being unusually nice – if Jawhara didn’t know any better she would have thought that Reem was up to no good, but if there was anything Jawhara was good at, it was reading people’s minds. She had sensed from the other day that Reem felt lonely; she could tell just by the way Reem was looking at Jawhara and Fajer.
As soon as they’d driven out of Qur6uba, it seemed that Jawhara had run out of things to say, and Reem as well. An awkward silence filled the air, and Jawhara silently wished that there were more non-invasive questions she could ask Reem – at least to fill the remainder of their drive to the Avenues. Luckily, Jawhara had packed her trusty iPod and iTrip, which outshined the stack of outdated CDs that graced Reem’s glove compartment.
M7amed 3abdu’s song filled the cramped car with his melodic voice: “Mafi Da3i Min 7anaaanak! Kil Yoom 3aathel Jedeed.. Mafi Da3i Min Malaaamak; Kam Fee 7ubbik Min Shaheeed! Yalli 3ayesh Fil-3awaaa6if Wana Neeraaani Btigeed! Yama Sa6art Il-Rasaaayel; Yama ’3allabt Il-Bareed! Yama Dam3i Bil-Ma7aaajer 5aaf Min 9edg Il-Wa3eed.. Mafi Da3i Min 7anaaanak!”
”M7amed 3abdu, haa?” Reem said with a smile, keeping her eyes fixated on the curving roads.
“Eee!” Jawhara replied after finishing her sing-a-long. “You don’t like him?”
“I do,” Reem replied, “But not more than Abu Baker Salem.”
“Ugh, I can’t stand Abu Baker,” Jawhara grunted. “He annoys me so much.”
“Afaa! ‘3al6aaana!” Reem gasped. “A9lan ma an6ereb illa itha it’s Abu Baker!”
Jawhara took that as her cue to change the song, her iPod shuffling itself to an A9eel song that she wasn’t too familiar with. She turned down the volume slightly and adjusted herself in the leather bucket seat, thinking about how already their differences have arised. Jawhara pulled out her phone and texted Mbarak, letting him know that they were almost there, and in turn, he replied with “ana we9alt 7abeebti na6rech ;*”.
The Avenues, as usual, was packed with old Kuwaiti socialite women who were dressed to the nines, having their brunches and salads at Dean & Deluca and Paul. Lorenzino, which was always full of young and gorgeous Kuwaiti guys, now seated a plethora of men in their mid-30’s, sipping their bitter espressos and poring over the day’s newspaper. “Don’t these people have jobs?” Jawhara remarked quietly as they made their way past the square and into the walkway of shops. Fajer was waiting for them at French Connection, and Mbarak was grabbing himself a coffee from the nearby Starbucks so he could read his notes and term papers a few more times before his exams the following week. As Jawhara walked by, she spotted his tall muscular body dwindling in front of the glass display case in Starbucks and pointing at a giant blueberry muffin. He whipped his head around for a second and caught Jawhara’s eye, smiling at her from ear to ear. In a matter of seconds, her phone buzzed with a text message from him: “u look soooooo beautiful joojti 9ej ;* have fun wetha tabeen shy ana hnee call me later”.
“Is that who I think it is?” Reem’s voice caught her attention, and Jawhara’s heart burned with jealousy.
+++++ M7amed 3abdu – Mafi Da3i (Jeddah 2004) +++++
“Well, dagait 3ala rifeejti Wafa2.. Kanat tishte’3el wiyana bil KOC. Sa2alt’ha 3an Um Mbarak oo 6la3at lail7een itkalemha. Fa 5athait raqamha min Wafa2 oo dagait 3alaiha. This week inshallah, the both of them are coming for dinner,” Jawhara’s mom explained.
“Oh.. My.. God. Mita?!” Jawhara almost screamed with excitement – this was huge! She was meeting Mbarak’s mom! This will undoubtedly take their relationship to a whole new level.
“Giltich this week, mama!” Jawhara’s mother giggled at her daughter’s excitement.
“Can Fajer come?” Jawhara asked, hoping that her best friend would be there for such a wonderful and exciting event in Jawhara’s life.
“Of course,” her mother smiled, rubbing Jawhara’s back.
In her mind, Jawhara was already planning the perfect outfit, with the perfect hair, and the perfect shoes – she wanted to be absolutely flawless for Mbarak’s mother. She then wondered if she should tell Mbarak about it. ‘No,’ she bit her lower lip, ‘I wouldn’t want him to think I was crazy.’ She immediately pulled her phone out of her bag to call Fajer, and as if Fajer was telepathic, her number was already flashing on Jawhara’s mobile.
“Intay wainich??” Fajer almost screamed into the phone.
“Bilbait tawni wa9la! Umbay, Fajoor; you’re not gonna believe this,” Jawhara’s smile spread across her cheeks.
“Shino? Shino? Goolay!” Fajer asked excitedly.
“So,” Jawhara began, tucking her legs under her thighs. “My mom got in touch with Mbarak’s mom and apparently she’s coming over for dinner this week!”
“No. Freakin’. Way,” Fajer stammered.
“Way! I’m so nervous wai3; already ba6ni yi3awerni!” Jawhara giggled, rubbing her hand gently over her abdomen.
“Wee 3ad, don’t be nervous! You know how you get when you’re nervous! Ta3feseen ildinya 3alaina!” Fajer warned, tucking herself in between the thick layers of her goose-down duvet.
“Please, don’t remind me,” Jawhara rolled her eyes as Fajer rattled off the previous events that stamped Jawhara’s nervousness as a curse of clumsiness – tripping over her own feet at weddings, walking into chairs at over-crowded restaurants, spilling crimson red tea on her aunt’s silk carpets during one of the many estiqbals she’d attended. Jawhara listened and let her tongue dart against the edges of her teeth, the scraping feeling soothing the milk-tea burn. “I got it; walla fahamt!” she cried, chuckling at her embarrassing moments.
“Ee, 3ad, hallah hallah!” Fajer concluded, anxiously waiting for the code word from Jawhara to signify that there were juicy details to be unraveled.
As if Jawhara was reading her mind, she sneakily said, “Yes, I have your earrings.”
“Ya shagool,” Fajer bolted upright in her bed. “9i3day oo call me and tell me everything!!”
“Yes, I’ll bring them tomorrow,” Jawhara played along with her encrypted message, feeling her mother’s suspicious glare burning her cheek.
“Now!” Fajer demanded excitedly, crossing her legs underneath her bed covers and pounding a cavity into the hollow in her lap.
As soon as Jawhara hung up the phone and excused herself to run up the stairs, Jawhara’s mother eyed her apprehensively, raising her eyebrows. “Ma 9arat hal tarachi – kil ma tkalmeenha tgooleenlaha ‘I have your earrings’? 3aib, mama, a’3rath ilbnaya lazim itrideenhum hathi amana!”
Jawhara tried not to burst into laughter and blow her own cover – she and Fajer needed to come up with a new code phrase. She kissed her mother’s forehead gently and said, “Don’t worry, yuma; ana oo Fajoor ma bainna shay.”
“Weeeh,” her mother relented, sipping her steaming milk-tea, “Ma 3eraft lekum, walla!”
Jawhara dashed up the stairs like she was training for the Olympics, and quickly shut the door of her bedroom behind her and locked it; she was almost certain that Joori would barge in at any moment and force Jawhara to play dress-up with her, and it was not the time for games. She redialed Fajer’s number, and as always, Fajer picked up on the first ring.
“Tell me everything,” Fajer pushed the mute button on the remote control, giving Jawhara her undivided attention. In a matter of minutes, Jawhara had described every particular detail of her date with Mbarak, ending her long-winded sentences with a recap of the perfect kiss.
Fajer’s jaw dropped and she stifled a chuckle, “Hathaila shino – mitafqeen inna they’re both gonna kiss us today?”
“Shiftay shloon? Well at least that’s one awkward step out of the way,” Jawhara smiled as she pulled off her bracelets. A hint of Mbarak’s cologne swept into her nose, and she pulled the bunched bangles closer to her nose, deeply inhaling the scent. “Mmmm; don’t you just love it when your clothes smell like him?”
“7adda, but my clothes smell like rain today,” Fajer eyed her half-full laundry basket across the room. If there was anything she hated more than a fun date ending, it was having the clothes washed of all the traces – smells, bits of sand, damp dots where the rain had made brown gashes on her camel sweater dress. She sighed and listened to Jawhara ramble about how excited she was that she was going to meet Mbarak’s mother.
“By the way, we need a new code word; my mom is starting to think I’m a thief,” Jawhara brought the conversation to an end. Fajer’s laughter filled her ears, and after their last quips and comments, they hung up from each other.
Jawhara thought twice about calling Mbarak; she didn’t want to seem clingy or needy, especially while he was at the diwaniya enjoying time with his friends. She placed her mobile a considerable distance away from her ear, in case it rang while she was asleep. After carefully reciting her mu3awethat, Jawhara tucked her fluffy duvet around her shoulders and drifted off into a light sleep. At approximately 2 AM, Jawhara felt her phone vibrate through the springy mattress, and Mbarak’s loud ringtone filled the air: “7u’6oorik Sayidi 6aaa’3i Wuho Yi6’3a 3alay! Ana Min Hawlat Il-Maw-”
“Hala 7abeebi,” Jawhara sighed groggily into the phone, squinting at the bright white light of her phone.
“Jawharti nayma?” Mbarak’s loud voice almost shattered her eardrums. The shouting voices behind him were audible, and he wanted to make sure that Jawhara heard him, even though he was standing outside.
“Ee.. Sh’hal ez3aj? Shfeek it9are5?” Jawhara demanded to know, trying to frown away the sudden migraine that was throbbing at her temples. It always happened every time she was awakened abruptly, and with Mbarak, the case was no different however much she loved to hear his voice.
“Asif, 7abeebti; Il-shabab yi9ar5oon da5el ga3deen nil3ab kout. 9ooti 3aali 9a7?” he said, and Jawhara could hear his wide goofy grin eating up his face.
“Wayid,” Jawhara chuckled as she reached up to her forehead and moved her thumb in circular motions.
“Asif, 7ayati,” Mbarak apologized again, this time in a much softer tone of voice. “Bes dag at6aman 3alaich 6ela3tay nayma – ana mo gayelich itdigeenli gabel la tnameen?”
”9ij? No, you didn’t,” Jawhara smiled, rolling over onto her stomach.
“Imbala, Joojti; chaykay your messages,” Mbarak assured her.
Surely enough, the tiny unopened envelope icon beamed proudly at the top of Jawhara’s screen. She crumpled her face at the icon angrily. ‘Dayman agoom 3ala 9oot il-message, bes today you chose not to wake me? 9ij telephone sakka,’ she thought.
“Sorry 7abeebi, ma shifta,” she felt her tense headache winding down. “Wai3, ba6la3 wiya Reemo bacher.”
“Ee, ma7ad 6aggich 3ala eedich oo gallich 6el3ay wiyaha,” Mbarak scoffed, and continued to ramble incoherently about how he thought it wasn’t a good idea and such.
“Well it’s kinda late to break any plans, Barook,” Jawhara sighed, trying hard not to roll her eyes. There’s nothing she hated more than being told what was right and wrong.
“Inzain shrayich ayi?” Mbarak suggested quickly.
“Tiyi wain? Wiyana? Allaaaah fog ma she tried to eat you like an animal, you wanna come with us to the Avenues?” Jawhara’s voice escalated into the darkness of her room.
“Laa yubaaa! Min 9ijjich ayi wiyakum? La; ya3ni akoon mawjood hnaak. Min b3eed lai b3eed. Shrayich?” Mbarak amended his suggestion, digging his fist into the kangaroo pocket of his Polo sweater. The pointed folds of the Caribou Coffee receipt poked his knuckles, and he quickly pulled out the small white paper and smoothed the wrinkles against his thigh with his hand.
“Itha chithee, okay,” Jawhara agreed with a grateful smile – she appreciated having Mbarak around all the time.
“Zain,” Mbarak grinned. “Inzain 7abeebti, ana badish da5el al7een ag3ad ma3a ilshabab shway ba3dain arid ilbeit. Tabeen shay?”
“Salamtik, Barooki,” Jawhara snuggled deeper under her blanket, enveloping herself in its warmth.
“Te9be7een 3ala 5air, Jojo,” he said softly, and discreetly blew her a small kiss. She blew a kiss back and they said their goodbyes.
The next morning, Jawhara was awaken by a loud thump followed by a shattering noise and heart-wrenching cries. Startled, she sprang up out of bed and bolted to her bedroom door only to find Joori sitting helplessly in the carpeted hallway, the thick salty tears pouring out of her eyes and splashing onto her cheeks.
“Joori!” Jawhara cried worriedly, scooping her baby sister into her arms. The evidence of the thunderous noise, her mother’s prized Venetian glass vase, lay splattered on the carpet in colorful shards, like a rainbow that had been severed into random shapes glistening in the soft morning light. “What happened??”
Joori’s sobs escalated into a melancholic wail mixed with incomprehensible words meant to explain what happened. Jawhara soothed her baby sister with kisses and strokes on her soft hair, the sweet smell of Baby Johnson’s shampoo creeping into her nose. Joori’s cries subsided, leaving only her shuddering breath to interrupt her explanation. “M-m-mama and R-rose ra7aw jam3iya-a-a. Ana y-yait for J-j-jawhara and this one fall!” She pointed at the culprit – a long treading table-cloth that must’ve entangled itself in her tiny feet, causing the vase to topple over and break. “M-m-mama will be so angry,” Joori concluded before another fit of sobs racked her chest.
“Awww,” Jawhara kissed the side of Joori’s face, “Don’t cry, 7abeebti Joori; Mama won’t be so angry. Are you hurt? Ako dam?” She inspected the soles of Joori’s feet and her short stumpy arms.
“No,” Joori mumbled sadly, burying her face in Jawhara’s chest and wrapping her arms around her neck.
“Ashwa,” Jawhara smiled as she picked Joori up and went inside her bedroom. Her phone was ringing off the hook by then, and she went to pick it up. “Aloo?”
“Hala ib7ayati,” Mbarak’s voice followed by his shifting around in bed filled her ears.
“Hala oo ‘3ala,” she smiled; she was already getting used to hearing his voice every morning.
“Shloonich? Ga3da?” Mbarak asked.
“Ee ga3da, baby – Jooriyo kanat bitdish ‘3urfiti chan it6aye7 my mom’s vase oo enkesar oo gamat tabchi. Ga3adt 3ala 9ya7ha,” Jawhara explained while stroking Joori’s tear-stained face.
“Ya 7abeeeeebti!” Mbarak cooed. He loved kids, and more than that, he loved it when older sisters took care of their younger sisters.
“Mino 7abeebtik? Ana wala ihya?” Jawhara asked playfully.
“Ihya; shabi feech intay?” he teased with a chuckle. “3a6eeni 7abeebti 5al akalemha!”
“Hey!” Jawhara laughed, knowing he was joking around. She handed the phone to Joori.
“Mino? Mama?” Joori asked worriedly, her eyes widening.
“No; bes goolay ‘aloo’!” Jawhara instructed in a whisper.
“Aloooooh?” Joori put on her best daloo3a voice for Mbarak, which he thoroughly enjoyed.
“7abeeeebti Joooori!” he said happily, “Shloonich?”
“Zaina,” she replied breathlessly, “Mino?”
“Ana Mbarak,” Mbarak replied as he sat up in his bed and turned on his lamp. The bright light blinded him, but upon hearing Joori’s adorable voice, he didn’t mind.
“Ana Joori,” she said almost robotically. “Inta wainik?” she asked, and Jawhara laughed at her sister’s nosey behavior. She learned to ask “inta wainik” to everyone, even girls, because Jawhara’s mother asked the driver this every morning on the phone.
“Ana bilbait,” Mbarak chuckled, pulling his fluffy blanket off his almost-naked body. “Mara7 tis2ileeni ‘shloonik’?”
“Shloonik?” Joori replied quickly and rather quietly, ashamed at her lack of manners.
“Ana zain. T7ibeeni?” Mbarak asked slyly. He had a reputation of getting little girls to fall in love with him – his younger girl cousins could never detach themselves from him during family get-togethers.
“Eeeeh, a7ibik,” Joori replied, much to Mbarak’s satisfaction.
“Hey, hey, hey! Yalla 3ad, a’3ar!” Jawhara cried over Mbarak and Joori’s childish conversation. “3a6eeni the phone, Joori.”
“Bye, Mbarak,” Joori spoke into the phone, waving her left hand as if he could see her.
“Bye-bye, 7abeebti Joori,” Mbarak laughed. “Ya 7ilwa,” he told Jawhara as soon as she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hala galbi; inshalla ma t’3azloon ba3ath wana mawjooda!” Jawhara pouted.
”Shasawi ba3ad; tloomeeni?” Mbarak raised his eyebrows and stifled a giggle.
“La walla; ma aloomik,” Jawhara replied as she kissed Joori on her plump rosy cheek.
“Inzain, sim3eeni,” Mbarak began, “Mita t5al9een min ilmaynoona?”
”Maaadri, walla,” Jawhara wondered, ”Around 3? Madri. Shay chithee. Laish?”
“Inzain, lama t5al9een minha, diggay 3alay. Abi awadeech mukan.”
“Wain?” Jawhara’s curiosity sparked her attention.
“Intay bes 5al9ay oo kalmeeni,” Mbarak replied with a grin.
“Inshalla,” she smiled, and when they hung up, she called Fajer to make arrangements of how the day would go. Fajer was to meet Reem and Jawhara at the Avenues in 2 hours, leaving them both ample time to get dressed. Jawhara opted for a long white tunic and a long black cashmere cardigan, paired with maroon leggings and black riding boots. Her hair, as always, was left in a tousled mess that always looked artfully arranged. On her way out of her bedroom, she grabbed her favorite Olive Oyl Moschino scarf, just in case it got too chilly.
“Mama, ana ba6la3,” Reem called to her mother after she’d finished getting dressed and had given Jawhara an adequate time to get ready.
“Wain 3ala Allah?” Huda asked, her head peering from the top of the staircase. She was completely dressed from head to toe in her sparkly diamond earrings and matching necklace, with a neatly pressed Adolfo Dominguez skirt suit, with matching high heels.
“Ray7a Avenues wiya Badriya,” Reem lied, knowing that if she told her mother that she was going out with Jawhara, the supposed enemy, she’d never hear the end of it.
“Shloon bte6le3een wana gaylatlich binroo7 nit’3ada wiya Um 6areq?” Huda placed a hand firmly onto her hip.
“Ee, Mama; I have nothing to wear! Aroo7 Avenues alageeli something nice oo I’ll be back. Mani m6awla,” the rope that was Reem’s lie continued to unfurl from it’s tightly wound coil.
“Ee 3ad dawreelich shay emratab,” Reem’s mother twisted her hand for emphasis, “Chood Um 6areq ta5thich 7ag wild’ha!”
‘7asha, jan6a; mo bintich – parading me around for everyone to see,’ Reem thought bitterly to herself. Her mind flashed back to the lunch with Mbarak – she’d always thought Mbarak to be cute, and though she wouldn’t mind having him, she felt it was time to break free of her mother’s trap and just start living for herself. ‘Maybe there’s someone out there better than Mbarak; just for me.’
The drive to Jawhara’s house was long, mostly because Reem had no definite sense of direction when it came to Kuwaiti streets. Though she’d gotten her license a couple of years ago without any was6a or complications, Reem preferred the back seat of the family car with her driver chauffeuring her everywhere she went. When she’d finally reached the driveway of the neat house in Qur6uba, Reem called Jawhara and told her that she was outside.
Jawhara wrinkled her nose at her mother and fumed for the millionth time, “I can’t believe you gave her my number, Mama.”
“Ishfeeha ya3ni?” Jawhara’s mother raised her eyebrows incredulously at her daughter; she couldn’t understand these young-adult situations for the life of her – as far as she was concerned, she was just doing a favor.
“Madri, Mama, ya3ni ma arta7laha!” Jawhara teased her hair with her fingers and straightened out her draped scarf. She looked herself over one last time before making her way to the door.
“Give her a chance, ya mama,” Jawhara’s mother pleaded, sensing that Jawhara and Reem may get along quite nicely.
“Fine,” Jawhara mumbled, blowing her mom a quick kiss before heading out onto the driveway. She spotted Reem in the small blue Lexus convertible that she’d recognized from the days at the chalet. She opened the passenger door and seated herself, kiss-kissing Reem and letting the formalities roll. To Jawhara, it seemed that Reem was being unusually nice – if Jawhara didn’t know any better she would have thought that Reem was up to no good, but if there was anything Jawhara was good at, it was reading people’s minds. She had sensed from the other day that Reem felt lonely; she could tell just by the way Reem was looking at Jawhara and Fajer.
As soon as they’d driven out of Qur6uba, it seemed that Jawhara had run out of things to say, and Reem as well. An awkward silence filled the air, and Jawhara silently wished that there were more non-invasive questions she could ask Reem – at least to fill the remainder of their drive to the Avenues. Luckily, Jawhara had packed her trusty iPod and iTrip, which outshined the stack of outdated CDs that graced Reem’s glove compartment.
M7amed 3abdu’s song filled the cramped car with his melodic voice: “Mafi Da3i Min 7anaaanak! Kil Yoom 3aathel Jedeed.. Mafi Da3i Min Malaaamak; Kam Fee 7ubbik Min Shaheeed! Yalli 3ayesh Fil-3awaaa6if Wana Neeraaani Btigeed! Yama Sa6art Il-Rasaaayel; Yama ’3allabt Il-Bareed! Yama Dam3i Bil-Ma7aaajer 5aaf Min 9edg Il-Wa3eed.. Mafi Da3i Min 7anaaanak!”
”M7amed 3abdu, haa?” Reem said with a smile, keeping her eyes fixated on the curving roads.
“Eee!” Jawhara replied after finishing her sing-a-long. “You don’t like him?”
“I do,” Reem replied, “But not more than Abu Baker Salem.”
“Ugh, I can’t stand Abu Baker,” Jawhara grunted. “He annoys me so much.”
“Afaa! ‘3al6aaana!” Reem gasped. “A9lan ma an6ereb illa itha it’s Abu Baker!”
Jawhara took that as her cue to change the song, her iPod shuffling itself to an A9eel song that she wasn’t too familiar with. She turned down the volume slightly and adjusted herself in the leather bucket seat, thinking about how already their differences have arised. Jawhara pulled out her phone and texted Mbarak, letting him know that they were almost there, and in turn, he replied with “ana we9alt 7abeebti na6rech ;*”.
The Avenues, as usual, was packed with old Kuwaiti socialite women who were dressed to the nines, having their brunches and salads at Dean & Deluca and Paul. Lorenzino, which was always full of young and gorgeous Kuwaiti guys, now seated a plethora of men in their mid-30’s, sipping their bitter espressos and poring over the day’s newspaper. “Don’t these people have jobs?” Jawhara remarked quietly as they made their way past the square and into the walkway of shops. Fajer was waiting for them at French Connection, and Mbarak was grabbing himself a coffee from the nearby Starbucks so he could read his notes and term papers a few more times before his exams the following week. As Jawhara walked by, she spotted his tall muscular body dwindling in front of the glass display case in Starbucks and pointing at a giant blueberry muffin. He whipped his head around for a second and caught Jawhara’s eye, smiling at her from ear to ear. In a matter of seconds, her phone buzzed with a text message from him: “u look soooooo beautiful joojti 9ej ;* have fun wetha tabeen shy ana hnee call me later”.
“Is that who I think it is?” Reem’s voice caught her attention, and Jawhara’s heart burned with jealousy.
+++++ M7amed 3abdu – Mafi Da3i (Jeddah 2004) +++++
Friday, April 3, 2009
Sweet Summer Heat
The ripe sunset-orange mangoes sat bunched in Tala's ceramic fruit bowl, the one that her cousin had gifted to her the day before her wedding. She read the inscription on the inside of the rim, tracing her fingers along the textured glazed paint: "To endless days, nights, and meals filled with love - Congratulations!". Tala smiled at the bold lettering, pressed her index finger to her plump lips, and touched her cousin's name. This very bowl brought her comfort every time she stepped in the kitchen; every time it was in her eyesight. The word "love" seemed to stand out more then the other words, making Tala's heart wince with pain at the thought of 7amad's recent abandon and neglect. 'Dawam,' he would sigh with exasperation every time she asked to go out with him, or tried to have a romantic evening alone. As a newlywed, asking her mother for advice was only necessary in the most crucial situations - Tala knew that her mother would very well brush off her childish complaints with a stream of retaliations - "Hatha rayal, ya 7abeebti; yeshte'3el 3ashan yi3ayshich ibra7a! La ta'6qe6een 3alaih!" her mother would say sternly.
Tala picked up a small mango - almost the size of her dainty hands - and examined its glowing leathery skin. Not a blemish in sight; not a single spot to soil it's organic beauty. A shade of red blushed itself against the crown of the orange hued mango, reminding Tala of the regality of mangoes. She pictured warm summer evenings in India, with a maharaja and his doting wife seated on plush cashmere pillows in the open air, and a silver bowl of red mangoes in between them. They would enjoy the mangoes as well as each other, lovingly and carefully, while they waited for a fresh breeze to pick up and cool them down. The sweet fumes made their way into Tala's nose, and she inhaled them far into the depths of her lungs, trying to capture the sweet scent and it’s imagery for as long as it would last.
Just then, 7amad burst through the main door and hollered "Salam" to whoever was listening, stripping Tala of her thoughts. His raspy voice echoed against the stark walls of their barely furnished villa, startling her. The firm mango escaped the grasp of her smooth hands, landing on the wooden table in an audible thud. 7amad turned his head to the sound in the kitchen, leaving Tala in awe at the sight of him. He had a tendency of doing that; the way his head would whip at the slightest sound, the way his large chestnut eyes would widen at the simplest things, and the way his pouty lips would curl into a devilishly sexy smile made Tala fall in love with him over and over again.
"Manga? Mino yayib manga?" 7amad smiled excitedly at the sight of the flushed fruits, bunched together in the bowl like a pan of gold nuggets. He hurriedly strode towards Tala, planting a hasty kiss on the side of her face.
"Ana," she replied half-heartedly. "Shloonik?" She watched him with eagerness as he plucked the biggest mango from the bunch and compared it to the size of his hand.
"Tamam; ma'3sooleen?" 7amad asked, satisfactorily rubbing the mango’s silky skin.
“La,” Tala replied as 7amad picked another mango up from the bowl. The word “love” was now in full view, bolder than ever, unveiled by the two mangoes that sat in 7amad’s palms. “Tawni yaybat’hum.”
“Mashkoora, Toota,” 7amad called over the rush of the faucet water. He ran his sun-kissed hands over the mangoes, quickly enough to wash them thoroughly as well as to enjoy them sooner. The mangoes, tightly tucked into the crevices of his palms, glistened with beads of cool water, like full breasts rising from a swimming pool. Without drying them, he adoringly brought them to his face and inhaled their scent, now magnified by the water’s touch.
Tala watched with envy as she set the table; two round plates, a large steel knife, and a two small spoons. ‘Why is it that he is so enticed with mangoes; so eager to touch them and to smell them while I – his wife – am standing here waiting for some sort of appraisal?’ she thought angrily. The stainless steel knife gleamed in the corner of Tala’s eye, luring her to pick it up and stab each and every one of the Alphonso mangoes so that 7amad could never enjoy them again. But, like a cruel joke or a painful reminder, the word “love” screamed at Tala again. ‘Love, honor, and obey,’ she would remind herself at her weakest moments. ‘Love, honor, and obey.’
He turned around from the sink, holding the orangey treasures with such care. The placed each mango onto a plate and drew back Tala’s chair as well as his, motioning for her to sit. “Taw innaas; al7een mo mawsem ilmanga!”
“Madri, 7amadi,” Tala replied with a shrug, and reached over for the giant knife, ready to butcher the fruit that had captured the ardent affection of her husband.
Before the sharp blade could graze the surface of the matured mango, 7amad pried the knife out of Tala’s hands and placed it back onto the wooden table. “Ib eedich,” he instructed, picking up the dense fruit with his two hands and tearing a small hole at the puckered tip with his teeth.
The pale orange mango pulp peeked out from under the scarlet flesh, coaxing 7amad’s lips closer to the cavity. In rhythmic movements, his thumbs tenderly massaged the side of the mango, pushing the pulpy nuggets towards the tear in the flesh. Tala watched as 7amad’s lips sucked the meaty sweetness into his mouth, chunk after chunk, careful not to let any bit of the mango escape. The bright juice trickled down his scruffy chin and dribbled down the sides of the mango’s flesh, twirling streams around his thick fingers and down his palms. Tala watched with great intent, her mango sitting patiently on her plate, as 7amad continued to bite and suck and tear at the mango’s skin with such ardor and want – she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. He scraped every last bit of the mango pulp off the skin with his teeth, gently tugging the soft tissue against his dentures.
After 7amad had satisfied his craving, he licked the syrupy lattice of juice from his hands and fingers before reaching for a wad of tissues. “Ma kalaitay,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head at the untouched mango on Tala’s plate.
“Al7een,” Tala replied quietly, her cheeks turning a faint crimson. The nervousness-induced warmth of her hands clashed significantly with the icy cold water droplets that decorated the mango like crystals. Just as she was about to bring the mango to her lips as 7amad had done earlier, 7amad encased her hands with his and guided the mango safely to Tala’s hungry lips. Her big brown eyes pierced through 7amad’s eyes warily, trying to decode whatever mischief he was up to. With her eyes still locked onto his, she tore a bit of the mango skin away from the top with her teeth. She felt a bit of the juicy fruit make it’s way up into her mouth, thanks to 7amad’s gentle pushes. As soon as it entered her mouth, 7amad pulled the mango into his own hands and dove in for a long, passionate kiss. His tongue stroked hers, probing her mouth in search of the luscious lump of mango he knew was nesting in there. The sweetness of his lips, tainted with the traces of an early afternoon cigarette, mixed with the tropical taste of the fruit, and once found, they shared it between their warm mouths.
He brought the limp mango near Tala’s lips once again. The intensity of their kiss caused 7amad to squeeze on the mango’s body a little too hard, first causing a gush of viscous juice to spill along the feminine curves of Tala’s lips. The fragrant syrup ran down the groove of her chin and the length of her neck, pooling at the small hollow that formed at the top of her ribcage. A tiny cry of shock and delight escaped her throat, but 7amad quickly muffled the sound with the crashing of his lips against hers. His tongue traced the faint orange line that swept down her neck, and softly lapped up the sweet pulpous juice before it dried into a sticky mess. Tala reclined against the back of the wooden chair, craning her neck every which way in order to allow 7amad access to the most inconspicuous places. Another reckless squeeze of the fruit tore the opening into a wide gash, causing the bright orange shaggy pit to sail out of the mango skin pouch and onto Tala’s chest, where 7amad tried to catch it.
“7amad!” Tala squealed like a child, suppressing the uproarious laughter that she knew was to come. The pit slipped out of his fingers like a wet bar of soap, but he tried again, this time succeeding in keeping it in his grasp.
“Shhhh,” 7amad soothed Tala’s giddy fit, shushing softly in her ear. With the wet pit in his hand, he rubbed Tala’s neck and exposed chest, staining her fair skin with mango residue. The pit glided over her skin until she was swathed with fiery-colored mango pulp, and they both breathed in the heady mango scent that wafted off of Tala’s skin. Like a golden sun goddess aching to be worshipped, Tala melted at the feel of 7amad’s touch, succumbing to his every desire. Normally, she would never allow 7amad to mix passion and food, as she was taught that it was a sin to use food in an erotic manner. But today, she gave way, letting his lips gather the shards of mango mash that tickled her skin. Tala opened her eyes for a moment during her escapade, eyeing the ceramic bowl that sat on the kitchen table, laden with more mangoes for the days to come.
Tala picked up a small mango - almost the size of her dainty hands - and examined its glowing leathery skin. Not a blemish in sight; not a single spot to soil it's organic beauty. A shade of red blushed itself against the crown of the orange hued mango, reminding Tala of the regality of mangoes. She pictured warm summer evenings in India, with a maharaja and his doting wife seated on plush cashmere pillows in the open air, and a silver bowl of red mangoes in between them. They would enjoy the mangoes as well as each other, lovingly and carefully, while they waited for a fresh breeze to pick up and cool them down. The sweet fumes made their way into Tala's nose, and she inhaled them far into the depths of her lungs, trying to capture the sweet scent and it’s imagery for as long as it would last.
Just then, 7amad burst through the main door and hollered "Salam" to whoever was listening, stripping Tala of her thoughts. His raspy voice echoed against the stark walls of their barely furnished villa, startling her. The firm mango escaped the grasp of her smooth hands, landing on the wooden table in an audible thud. 7amad turned his head to the sound in the kitchen, leaving Tala in awe at the sight of him. He had a tendency of doing that; the way his head would whip at the slightest sound, the way his large chestnut eyes would widen at the simplest things, and the way his pouty lips would curl into a devilishly sexy smile made Tala fall in love with him over and over again.
"Manga? Mino yayib manga?" 7amad smiled excitedly at the sight of the flushed fruits, bunched together in the bowl like a pan of gold nuggets. He hurriedly strode towards Tala, planting a hasty kiss on the side of her face.
"Ana," she replied half-heartedly. "Shloonik?" She watched him with eagerness as he plucked the biggest mango from the bunch and compared it to the size of his hand.
"Tamam; ma'3sooleen?" 7amad asked, satisfactorily rubbing the mango’s silky skin.
“La,” Tala replied as 7amad picked another mango up from the bowl. The word “love” was now in full view, bolder than ever, unveiled by the two mangoes that sat in 7amad’s palms. “Tawni yaybat’hum.”
“Mashkoora, Toota,” 7amad called over the rush of the faucet water. He ran his sun-kissed hands over the mangoes, quickly enough to wash them thoroughly as well as to enjoy them sooner. The mangoes, tightly tucked into the crevices of his palms, glistened with beads of cool water, like full breasts rising from a swimming pool. Without drying them, he adoringly brought them to his face and inhaled their scent, now magnified by the water’s touch.
Tala watched with envy as she set the table; two round plates, a large steel knife, and a two small spoons. ‘Why is it that he is so enticed with mangoes; so eager to touch them and to smell them while I – his wife – am standing here waiting for some sort of appraisal?’ she thought angrily. The stainless steel knife gleamed in the corner of Tala’s eye, luring her to pick it up and stab each and every one of the Alphonso mangoes so that 7amad could never enjoy them again. But, like a cruel joke or a painful reminder, the word “love” screamed at Tala again. ‘Love, honor, and obey,’ she would remind herself at her weakest moments. ‘Love, honor, and obey.’
He turned around from the sink, holding the orangey treasures with such care. The placed each mango onto a plate and drew back Tala’s chair as well as his, motioning for her to sit. “Taw innaas; al7een mo mawsem ilmanga!”
“Madri, 7amadi,” Tala replied with a shrug, and reached over for the giant knife, ready to butcher the fruit that had captured the ardent affection of her husband.
Before the sharp blade could graze the surface of the matured mango, 7amad pried the knife out of Tala’s hands and placed it back onto the wooden table. “Ib eedich,” he instructed, picking up the dense fruit with his two hands and tearing a small hole at the puckered tip with his teeth.
The pale orange mango pulp peeked out from under the scarlet flesh, coaxing 7amad’s lips closer to the cavity. In rhythmic movements, his thumbs tenderly massaged the side of the mango, pushing the pulpy nuggets towards the tear in the flesh. Tala watched as 7amad’s lips sucked the meaty sweetness into his mouth, chunk after chunk, careful not to let any bit of the mango escape. The bright juice trickled down his scruffy chin and dribbled down the sides of the mango’s flesh, twirling streams around his thick fingers and down his palms. Tala watched with great intent, her mango sitting patiently on her plate, as 7amad continued to bite and suck and tear at the mango’s skin with such ardor and want – she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. He scraped every last bit of the mango pulp off the skin with his teeth, gently tugging the soft tissue against his dentures.
After 7amad had satisfied his craving, he licked the syrupy lattice of juice from his hands and fingers before reaching for a wad of tissues. “Ma kalaitay,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head at the untouched mango on Tala’s plate.
“Al7een,” Tala replied quietly, her cheeks turning a faint crimson. The nervousness-induced warmth of her hands clashed significantly with the icy cold water droplets that decorated the mango like crystals. Just as she was about to bring the mango to her lips as 7amad had done earlier, 7amad encased her hands with his and guided the mango safely to Tala’s hungry lips. Her big brown eyes pierced through 7amad’s eyes warily, trying to decode whatever mischief he was up to. With her eyes still locked onto his, she tore a bit of the mango skin away from the top with her teeth. She felt a bit of the juicy fruit make it’s way up into her mouth, thanks to 7amad’s gentle pushes. As soon as it entered her mouth, 7amad pulled the mango into his own hands and dove in for a long, passionate kiss. His tongue stroked hers, probing her mouth in search of the luscious lump of mango he knew was nesting in there. The sweetness of his lips, tainted with the traces of an early afternoon cigarette, mixed with the tropical taste of the fruit, and once found, they shared it between their warm mouths.
He brought the limp mango near Tala’s lips once again. The intensity of their kiss caused 7amad to squeeze on the mango’s body a little too hard, first causing a gush of viscous juice to spill along the feminine curves of Tala’s lips. The fragrant syrup ran down the groove of her chin and the length of her neck, pooling at the small hollow that formed at the top of her ribcage. A tiny cry of shock and delight escaped her throat, but 7amad quickly muffled the sound with the crashing of his lips against hers. His tongue traced the faint orange line that swept down her neck, and softly lapped up the sweet pulpous juice before it dried into a sticky mess. Tala reclined against the back of the wooden chair, craning her neck every which way in order to allow 7amad access to the most inconspicuous places. Another reckless squeeze of the fruit tore the opening into a wide gash, causing the bright orange shaggy pit to sail out of the mango skin pouch and onto Tala’s chest, where 7amad tried to catch it.
“7amad!” Tala squealed like a child, suppressing the uproarious laughter that she knew was to come. The pit slipped out of his fingers like a wet bar of soap, but he tried again, this time succeeding in keeping it in his grasp.
“Shhhh,” 7amad soothed Tala’s giddy fit, shushing softly in her ear. With the wet pit in his hand, he rubbed Tala’s neck and exposed chest, staining her fair skin with mango residue. The pit glided over her skin until she was swathed with fiery-colored mango pulp, and they both breathed in the heady mango scent that wafted off of Tala’s skin. Like a golden sun goddess aching to be worshipped, Tala melted at the feel of 7amad’s touch, succumbing to his every desire. Normally, she would never allow 7amad to mix passion and food, as she was taught that it was a sin to use food in an erotic manner. But today, she gave way, letting his lips gather the shards of mango mash that tickled her skin. Tala opened her eyes for a moment during her escapade, eyeing the ceramic bowl that sat on the kitchen table, laden with more mangoes for the days to come.
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