Every day that followed their memorable encounter was more gratifying than the last. She would spend a considerable amount of time in his office, standing at the entrance until he'd motion for her to sit, which never took too long.
Their conversations were always laced with laughter, and as random as the topics were, they found out so much about each other. Pictures, secrets, hopes, fears, and desires were shared between them. The little things, again.
His face always showed a ting of dismay when she'd collect her things to leave, and he found himself waiting for her visits everyday.
When she'd be too busy to visit him, her heart literally ached. A brick of disappointment would smash itself against her heart and a wave of resentment towards her work would crash down. She didn't want anything to keep her from him, and she started to miss him even when she was at home or out running errands.
They say when you're in love, or falling in love, at least, you think about that special person in the slightest situations; wondering where they are, what they're doing, if they're smiling or asleep.
When thunder clapped in the gloomy Kuwait sky, her insides gurgled with worry - whether he was out driving or indoors watching TV, she silently prayed that the weather wouldn't harm him in any way.
She'd wonder if he ate well, slept well, was busy reading his favorite book, or cheering his favorite soccer team on.
She even started to hate weekends, simply because they were two lifeless days that could've been spent talking to him.
She thought about him all the time.
But isn't that how girls always are? Vulnerable, easy to please, and get excited over the silliest things? "7ub min 6araf wa7id", as they call it?
She always thought that saying to be a little harsh.
Another Sunday rolled around, and the anticipation to get to work lit up inside of her, like a mountain of coals being slowly fueled by liquid nitrogen. By the time she reached the dark parking structure near her workplace, her heart was already beating like African drums being thumped on wildly. The fire inside of her burned so bright, her face glowed.
She turned off the country music songs streaming from her iPod and straightened herself out before heading into the building, ready for another vigorous day on the job. It always made her smile knowing he was just two floors above her, like an angel looking down on her and watching over her as she made her every move.
When the work was finally done, she rushed over to the elevator and made her way up to meet Elevator Man. He was waiting for her at his desk, scribbling on his calendar.
"What are you writing?" she asked after they'd greeted each other and she'd sat down.
"Soccer game dates," he replied with a shy smile.
"Min 9ijjik?" she laughed, and he nodded, turning his calendar around to face her. She saw several dates circled with names of teams she's never heard of scrawled under the numbers.
Their conversation ensued from there, the nervous tension between them melting like an ice cube in the summer sun. She felt so at ease around him now. Grabbing a pen from his pencil-holder, she began drawing random swirls and squiggles on his hand.
He laughed and drew his hand back in protest, but the adorable pout from her cherry-stained lips won him over. He let her draw on the back of his hand and his fingers, and he smiled at the way she was so concerned with details.
A flower, a spiral, and a few letters from the alphabet later, she dropped the pen onto the table and rested her head on her elbow.
"Feech ilnoom?" he asked softly.
She closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. "7addi.. I wanna go home."
"Ma buga shay," he smiled at her wilted frame. "Namay under my desk."
"Laa?" she laughed, "So you can put your feet on me? Like a footstool?"
"Shako!" he giggled, "I would never put my feet on you. Awa5erhum."
"You're silly," she crinkled her nose at him. "I should get going."
"Wain?" he sat upright, not wanting her to leave.
"Lazim anzil; I don't want them to start looking for me!" she replied.
She stood up and leaned against the filing cabinet. Sleep deprivation invaded her thoughts, and she stared at him blankly for a few seconds too long.
"Shfeech?" he asked, stretching his arms out in front of him.
"Madri, kint bas2ilik shay bes nisait," she rubbed the side of her head as if she was coaxing the question out of her brain.
"What's the question?" he asked again, this time smiling devilishly.
"Agoollik nisait; I honestly forgot!" she laughed, feeling a little sorry for herself.
"Cham raqmich?" he blurted out, picking his Blackberry up from his desk. His thumb hovered over the tiny keypad, ready to punch in the numbers.
"Huh?" she asked incredulously. It was as if a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over her head. Or as if a fiery hot branding iron had been pressed into her thigh. The sensation of waking up from a bad dream and realizing you're okay. A question so short, so simple, waking her senses and giving her optimism another push.
"Cham raqmich?" he asked again, leaning forward. She recited her number slowly, and in a matter of seconds, a new but strangely familiar set of eight digits flashed onto her screen, with a soft M7amed 3abdu ringtone fanfaring it.
She stared at the numbers, almost in disbelief. Saving the number, she looked up at him and smiled. Her crimson cheeks felt hot, but his reciprocated smile made everything seem normal and easy.
"When you remember your question, digeeli," he stated with a grin that spoke worlds.
And with that last sentence resounding in her head, she floated. Like living in a surreal painting, she floated away from his office, floated downstairs, floated into her car and floated back home. Everything still was suddenly in motion, and everything in motion was suspended in time.
It was exactly how she wanted it to be.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Elevator Man (Pt. 4)
He stifled a giggle as he studied the look on her face - anxiety mixed with apprehension and topped with a sheepish smile.
"Hala walla," he replied softly, his deep gaze penetrating her soul. Her face felt extremely hot, and she felt beads of sweat gathering at the back of her neck.
He was just as gorgeous up close as he was far away, and his smile.. Oh, his smile. What a smile it was; cheeky and radiant and friendly, and everything a beautiful smile should be. Her knees almost buckled, but she gained her composure and cleared her throat.
"Shloonik?" she asked, catching her breath.
"Tamam, intay shloonich?" he replied with a grin. He seemed so cool and collected that it bothered her. She wondered for a split-second why he wasn't twiddling his thumbs or fixing his ghetra, or doing anything that would indicate a sliver of nervousness.
Little did she know that his stomach was swarmed with butterflies, and his heart swelled with affection - here was the girl that he was so afraid to talk to, standing at his desk and making small talk.
She nodded in acknowledgment and tucked her hair behind her ear.
After a few seconds of awkward silence and nervous glances, he motioned for her to sit. "Are you busy?" her voice quivered as she stared at the empty chair he was ushering to; anything to avert her eyes from his.
He shook his head, still smiling, as she took a seat. She smoothed her skirt out against her thighs and clasped her sweaty palms. "Is your manager here?"
"La," he shook his head, "Agdar asa3dich itha tabeen."
"Thank you," she smiled politely, and introduced herself. He introduced himself as well, and her heart raced as she watched his lips pronounce his name.
Breathtaking.
'Ism 3ala musama,' she thought to herself, studying his features. She pushed her papers towards him and he skimmed through them in less than three seconds.
"Marketing, huh?" he asked, curiosity swimming in his eyes. "Shitsaween?"
She explained her position and everything she does, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. He spoke softly about his position, all the while tapping his pen against the stack of papers she'd presented to him.
She wished she could grab the papers and bring them to her lips exactly where his pen had made artful dots. She was enamoured with everything about him, and their conversation hadn't lasted more than three minutes.
From work-related conversation, they transitioned smoothly into topics that had nothing to do with their workplace. With every word he spoke, she felt more and more at ease. Strangely enough, her heart rate picked up with every giggle, every smile, every word that he spoke.
He was perfect. Perfect in every sense of the word.
With every story and blurb, they found themselves to be alike in the strangest and smallest ways - the ways that could only be the tiniest but strongest links that would hold them together.
Even their opposite likes and dislikes seemed to click, and their bubbly conversation lasted for a little over an hour.
Quickly checking the time on her phone, she was surprised at how time flew by, and at she was overcome with a wave of embarrassment. The phrase "7ayallah men zar oo 5afaf" repeated itself in her head, and she made an excuse to get up and leave.
"I take it your manager's still not free?" she asked.
"She's not here today," he grinned, and her throat tickled. He could've easily said that his manager wasn't here if he didn't want her to sit and talk. But he did. And that little fact meant more to her than the hour of lovely chit-chat she'd shared with him.
"Oh, well then, just tell her I was looking for her," she smiled broadly.
"Will do," he nodded. "Murreenna 3ad!"
"Insha'allah," she blushed, and hurried out of his office.
As she waited for the elevator, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes in utter bliss. Her breath caught itself in her throat, and her ribcage collapsed onto her lungs, squeezing her heart in the most perfect way possible.
This was it. A new beginning. A new chapter.
And what a person to start the book with.
"Hala walla," he replied softly, his deep gaze penetrating her soul. Her face felt extremely hot, and she felt beads of sweat gathering at the back of her neck.
He was just as gorgeous up close as he was far away, and his smile.. Oh, his smile. What a smile it was; cheeky and radiant and friendly, and everything a beautiful smile should be. Her knees almost buckled, but she gained her composure and cleared her throat.
"Shloonik?" she asked, catching her breath.
"Tamam, intay shloonich?" he replied with a grin. He seemed so cool and collected that it bothered her. She wondered for a split-second why he wasn't twiddling his thumbs or fixing his ghetra, or doing anything that would indicate a sliver of nervousness.
Little did she know that his stomach was swarmed with butterflies, and his heart swelled with affection - here was the girl that he was so afraid to talk to, standing at his desk and making small talk.
She nodded in acknowledgment and tucked her hair behind her ear.
After a few seconds of awkward silence and nervous glances, he motioned for her to sit. "Are you busy?" her voice quivered as she stared at the empty chair he was ushering to; anything to avert her eyes from his.
He shook his head, still smiling, as she took a seat. She smoothed her skirt out against her thighs and clasped her sweaty palms. "Is your manager here?"
"La," he shook his head, "Agdar asa3dich itha tabeen."
"Thank you," she smiled politely, and introduced herself. He introduced himself as well, and her heart raced as she watched his lips pronounce his name.
Breathtaking.
'Ism 3ala musama,' she thought to herself, studying his features. She pushed her papers towards him and he skimmed through them in less than three seconds.
"Marketing, huh?" he asked, curiosity swimming in his eyes. "Shitsaween?"
She explained her position and everything she does, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. He spoke softly about his position, all the while tapping his pen against the stack of papers she'd presented to him.
She wished she could grab the papers and bring them to her lips exactly where his pen had made artful dots. She was enamoured with everything about him, and their conversation hadn't lasted more than three minutes.
From work-related conversation, they transitioned smoothly into topics that had nothing to do with their workplace. With every word he spoke, she felt more and more at ease. Strangely enough, her heart rate picked up with every giggle, every smile, every word that he spoke.
He was perfect. Perfect in every sense of the word.
With every story and blurb, they found themselves to be alike in the strangest and smallest ways - the ways that could only be the tiniest but strongest links that would hold them together.
Even their opposite likes and dislikes seemed to click, and their bubbly conversation lasted for a little over an hour.
Quickly checking the time on her phone, she was surprised at how time flew by, and at she was overcome with a wave of embarrassment. The phrase "7ayallah men zar oo 5afaf" repeated itself in her head, and she made an excuse to get up and leave.
"I take it your manager's still not free?" she asked.
"She's not here today," he grinned, and her throat tickled. He could've easily said that his manager wasn't here if he didn't want her to sit and talk. But he did. And that little fact meant more to her than the hour of lovely chit-chat she'd shared with him.
"Oh, well then, just tell her I was looking for her," she smiled broadly.
"Will do," he nodded. "Murreenna 3ad!"
"Insha'allah," she blushed, and hurried out of his office.
As she waited for the elevator, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes in utter bliss. Her breath caught itself in her throat, and her ribcage collapsed onto her lungs, squeezing her heart in the most perfect way possible.
This was it. A new beginning. A new chapter.
And what a person to start the book with.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Elevator Man (Pt. 3)
For all those who said it was love.. How do you love someone you don't even know?
And to F1, Mubarak is real. Unfortunately, he wasn't the man I thought he would be.
-------------------------------------
Days and weeks passed, and Elevator Man was the climax of her day, every single day. She'd take trips up to the 6th floor and see him there, sitting patiently at his desk for some work, or staring intently at the articles of his newpaper, or typing away on his keyboard.
His eyebrows were almost always furrowed, except for when he'd look up and catch her walking by. Only then would his face muscles relax, and the deep cuts of his stare would turn into doe-like pools of brown that she could forever swim in.
Their eyes would lock for no longer than three seconds, every single time. Not a smile, not a blink, not a twitch. Just a stare.
And just thinking about being stared at by him made the butterflies in her stomach come alive. She'd walk away giddy with excitement and exhale deeply when she was alone by the elevator, smiling blissfully to herself. His gaze was enough for her. She didn't need words.
Her best friend at work would tease her everyday, and then make her feel bad for not making a move. "He's not gonna talk to you, you know. Guys like him don't make the first move. If you don't talk to him, you're gonna stare at each other forever and nothing's gonna happen."
"What do you expect me to do; just go over there and talk to him?" she'd ask, flustered.
"YES!" her friend would pressure her. "You're never gonna get anywhere this way!"
"It's easy for you to say - you're married!" she'd reply.
"Well, if I were you, I would've talked to him by now!"
This conversation continued day after day, after every short but memorable visit to the 6th floor. Deep inside, it panged her heart because she knew her friend was right. 'What is with all the staring? Why won't he talk to me?' she'd think to herself.
It was only then, when her friend practically threatened to never speak to her again. Only then, when she picked up the scattered bits of courage and confidence she had left after Mubarak had bludgeoned her heart to the ground. Only then did she decide it was time to break the ice, slice the tension, and shatter the Berlin Wall of silence that remained between them.
She marched over to the elevator and got in, her trembling finger pushing the "6" button. Her heart was visibly pounding against her ribcage, so loud and tremorous that she felt it in her throat and heard it in her ears. When the elevator dinged and the doors parted, she took a deep breath and walked with long fast strides. There was no turning back now.
She power-walked straight to Elevator Man's desk; she didn't care if he was busy or not, or had a client at his desk. She was going to talk to him no matter the circumstance.
Elevator Man sat quietly at his desk, twirling his Mont Blanc pen between his fingers and poring over newspaper articles. Little red and green numbers jumped at him from the financial pages, and he marked various numbers with dark blue circles. From the corner of his eye, he saw her coming. His heart did a double-flip inside his chest cavity, and his tongue rolled quickly across his lips.
She placed her hand against the filing cabinet that was right near the entrance of his cubicle to steady herself and keep her body from collapsing into a puddle on the floor. Her staccatto breath quickened as she opened her mouth, wanting the words to escape her throat before she turned around and escaped the situation.
Elevator Man looked up from his newspaper and fixated his beautiful eyes onto hers, letting a breathtakingly sweet smile paint his face.
"Hi," she squeaked, and every tiny nerve in her body prickled her skin, like she was being burned alive in a wild fire of adrenaline.
And to F1, Mubarak is real. Unfortunately, he wasn't the man I thought he would be.
-------------------------------------
Days and weeks passed, and Elevator Man was the climax of her day, every single day. She'd take trips up to the 6th floor and see him there, sitting patiently at his desk for some work, or staring intently at the articles of his newpaper, or typing away on his keyboard.
His eyebrows were almost always furrowed, except for when he'd look up and catch her walking by. Only then would his face muscles relax, and the deep cuts of his stare would turn into doe-like pools of brown that she could forever swim in.
Their eyes would lock for no longer than three seconds, every single time. Not a smile, not a blink, not a twitch. Just a stare.
And just thinking about being stared at by him made the butterflies in her stomach come alive. She'd walk away giddy with excitement and exhale deeply when she was alone by the elevator, smiling blissfully to herself. His gaze was enough for her. She didn't need words.
Her best friend at work would tease her everyday, and then make her feel bad for not making a move. "He's not gonna talk to you, you know. Guys like him don't make the first move. If you don't talk to him, you're gonna stare at each other forever and nothing's gonna happen."
"What do you expect me to do; just go over there and talk to him?" she'd ask, flustered.
"YES!" her friend would pressure her. "You're never gonna get anywhere this way!"
"It's easy for you to say - you're married!" she'd reply.
"Well, if I were you, I would've talked to him by now!"
This conversation continued day after day, after every short but memorable visit to the 6th floor. Deep inside, it panged her heart because she knew her friend was right. 'What is with all the staring? Why won't he talk to me?' she'd think to herself.
It was only then, when her friend practically threatened to never speak to her again. Only then, when she picked up the scattered bits of courage and confidence she had left after Mubarak had bludgeoned her heart to the ground. Only then did she decide it was time to break the ice, slice the tension, and shatter the Berlin Wall of silence that remained between them.
She marched over to the elevator and got in, her trembling finger pushing the "6" button. Her heart was visibly pounding against her ribcage, so loud and tremorous that she felt it in her throat and heard it in her ears. When the elevator dinged and the doors parted, she took a deep breath and walked with long fast strides. There was no turning back now.
She power-walked straight to Elevator Man's desk; she didn't care if he was busy or not, or had a client at his desk. She was going to talk to him no matter the circumstance.
Elevator Man sat quietly at his desk, twirling his Mont Blanc pen between his fingers and poring over newspaper articles. Little red and green numbers jumped at him from the financial pages, and he marked various numbers with dark blue circles. From the corner of his eye, he saw her coming. His heart did a double-flip inside his chest cavity, and his tongue rolled quickly across his lips.
She placed her hand against the filing cabinet that was right near the entrance of his cubicle to steady herself and keep her body from collapsing into a puddle on the floor. Her staccatto breath quickened as she opened her mouth, wanting the words to escape her throat before she turned around and escaped the situation.
Elevator Man looked up from his newspaper and fixated his beautiful eyes onto hers, letting a breathtakingly sweet smile paint his face.
"Hi," she squeaked, and every tiny nerve in her body prickled her skin, like she was being burned alive in a wild fire of adrenaline.
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