Chicken Soup for the Kuwaiti Soul

GOLDEN ROSES

2011-01-30T11:59:00.000-08:00

Nighttime trickled in throughout the indigo skies of Cairo, chasing away the blazing orange sunset. The cool winter breeze swept in through the pane-less window, making the flimsy curtains of Nafeesa's humble abode sigh in exasperation. Or was it relief? One would never know. The frayed edges of Tamer's old car bedsheets flapped in the wind, and almost immediately Nafeesa had wished she'd never gifted her new cotton curtains to her newly-wed sister-in-law.
Nafeesa had saved for months, dropping pound after pound into an empty orange juice container, until she had acquired enough money for the beautiful curtains.

She vividly remembers the day she had first seen them in the shop's window, the cream colored cotton intricately woven and embroidered with golden roses. Nafeesa eagerly eyed Haleem, her husband, when the shopkeeper mumbled the price while rummaging through his store catalog. '280 pounds?' she asked herself incredulously, 'That kind of money could feed us for weeks! The curtains will have to wait.'
Haleem squeezed his wife's hand as they shuffled through the Khan Khaleeli marketplace, aware of her disappointment. A wave of guilt crashed over him, making it hard to catch his breath. He loved Nafeesa with every bone in his body; every fiber in his very being. Marrying her was the best decision he has ever made, and he wanted to do anything in his power to make her happy. After all, she cooked delicious meals for him, listened to his mindless chatter, doted on him, and bore his first child, Tamer.
But the curtains were a luxury that they could not afford at that moment in time. Nafeesa had slept that night with a heavy heart; for once, she wanted to have something beautiful displayed in her home. The ratty second-hand furniture passed down from her grandmother and mother has seen better days, and the plastic flowers in the glass vase were graying and weathered. Still, Nafeesa was humble and thankful for all she had, even though it wasn't much. "Alhamdulillah," she sighed into the darkness of their bedroom, and Haleem slipped his arm around her slender waist as they slept, lulled to sleep by Tamer's gurgling.

Now, Tamer had outgrown his car bedsheets, wishing for something a little more tailored to his ever-changing infatuations. First, it was safari animals. Then, it was football. Nafeesa and Haleem had to wallow in their self-disappointment everytime they refused Tamer's pleading cries for new bedsheets, but for the time being, him sleeping on a bare futon would have to suffice. The car bedsheets soon became make-shift curtains. "We will move out of here soon," Haleem assured Nafeesa. "I promise."

The joy painted on Nafeesa's face as she stepped back into the shop months later was indescribable. The curtains were still hanging in the window, and the shopkeeper had recognized her immediately. "Came back for the curtains, hmm?" he'd asked her from the jet black tuft of his mustache. Nafeesa nodded excitedly as Haleem tightened his grip on the old orange juice container. Two hundred and eighty pounds exactly - Nafeesa had counted them at least 5 times before leaving the house. The weight of the container lessened as the shopkeeper cupped handfuls of coins onto the glass counter and slid them to the side, one by one until all 280 coins were counted off.
He gave Nafeesa the gleaming plastic package, it's contents boasting themselves. Two neatly folded drapes, and at least ten plastic hooks to hang them with. Nafeesa gingerly slid her fingers across the top of the package and shot a radiant beam at Haleem. Haleem smiled back and kissed the crown of his wife's head and led her home.

It was only a couple of days later that Nafeesa's sister-in-law sent the wedding invitations. Though Nafeesa was ecstatic for Shareefa, she couldn't help but think of her brand new curtains' fate. They were the nicest thing she owned, still brand new, and they had no money to spare for a gift. Nafeesa's heart crumbled when she gave them to Shareefa, but she would rather die than be known as the stingy sister-in-law who didn't come to the wedding with a gift.
The curtains went, but the yearning for them remained. She was sure that Shareefa would love them and enjoy them as much as she would've, and she could still see them everytime she went to Shareefa's home to visit. The tiny assurances filled her heart with rest, and it was only a matter of days until life went on as it normally had in their household.

-----

The faint chants of the January 25th protests were carried in with the breeze, reminding Nafeesa that the struggle of their poverty, God willing, would soon be over. Oh, what she would give to stand in the face of danger in Tahrir Square! She wanted so desperately to be a soldier fighting for her country's rights along with the thousands of other civilians, but Haleem was having nothing of the sort. "I will not allow my darling to be subjected to danger! Don't you hear the gunshots?! I won't risk losing you and neither will Tamer."
So Nafeesa stood tall and proud in her cramped tiled kitchen, rolling savory dough for their "emshaltat" dinner and chanting with the distant cries. The ivory dough stretched itself thin over the counter top, and Nafeesa wistfully prodded rose designs into the edges, smiling at what could have been her beautiful curtains.

One day, Egypt will be free of it's social and economic shackles, and the luxuries Nafeesa had once dreamed of will be a laughable memory.

** This post is a dedication to our Egyptian brothers and sisters fighting for their rights. To whoever is reading this, please send them your strength and prayers. They are taking a huge step towards a reformation, and they need our support more than ever. God bless. Ta7ya Ma9r! **

AND I'M BACK!

2011-01-26T20:52:00.000-08:00

Hey guys!

I know it's been a while (a really really long while) since I've last posted.

My December finally came around and I had the most exhilarating, relaxing, and self-defining moment of my life. I went overseas alone for one month. No friends, no family, nothing but some money and a dream.

It was seriously the most liberating thing I had EVER done in my life. You know how some African-American women resort to shaving their heads as a symbol of their freedom and independence from hair chemicals and relaxers?
My symbol was a plane ticket.

I met the greatest people, ate the most delicious food, enjoyed my OWN company, didn't miss anyone, and was exposed to the best music there ever was. I was so inspired, day in and day out. My camera died on me time and time again because I couldn't stop taking pictures of every little detail.

Wherever you decide to let the charter fly you, do it, and do it without any inhibitions. I could go on and on forever about every little experience I went through, but some things are just too personal.

I have forgotten everything that held me back, and though I was extremely sad to be home again and back to my routine life, I feel so blessed to have gone through everything I did. I came back happier, more responsible, and more assertive than I've ever been.

And most importantly, I don't feel the slightest wince of pain when I think about Mubarak. As a matter of fact, we've driven side by side on the way to work at least twice now, and never once did my heart race. Never once did I feel like I needed to stare at him or call him or text him.

I am free.

And I'm back. And inspired. So I hope you guys are ready to read :) I've missed you guys!

DECEMBER

2010-09-07T00:38:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes I want you here, then I wish you'd vanish."

The phrase repeats itself in my head so many times, it's starting to become the only thing I know. I live on a twisted emotional rollercoaster that suspends me upside-down in mid-air every single time you cross my mind or when I'm with you. Stomach churning, heavy breathing, feeling the chunks and lumps rise in my throat. Waiting for the harness to give way to my heaving chest, come loose, and send me tumbling down to a dark pit where I will surely die or break some bones. But at this point, no pain is more unbearable than the fact that I've lost you. Somehow.

That is why I need December. I need to be a million miles away from you - disconnected, out of the coverage area. Don't try to call me or e-mail me or text me or poke me or tweet me or utter my name on your lips, those very lips I've kissed a thousand times in my dreams when I ache for you.

You don't feel it and you wouldn't understand it. You wouldn't understand why a specific song playing at a specific moment in the day elevates my senses. You wouldn't understand seeing me standing on the roof of an old building in nothing but heels, a bandage skirt, a crop top and wild hair in the freezing cold, dancing to old-school Hip-Hop like I was the only one in the universe.

Or would you understand?

I.
Don't.
Know.

What I do know is that you need to stop doing whatever it is you're doing. I don't think your wishy-washy bipolar behavior is funny or attractive or remotely mysterious. It just turns you into an indecisive (and not funny) fly that keeps buzzing around my nose, lips, eyes, and ears when I'm trying to have a delicious home-cooked meal after being starved for so long.

I need December, and I need you to not be a part of it.
I'm leaving it all behind.
So if you're thinking you have the upper hand right now and that the ball's in your court, think again. You weren't playing to begin with.

YOU

2010-08-12T03:52:00.000-07:00

In that glimpse of a smile that she'd witnessed, chapters upon volumes were being written. An amalgamation of fiction, because it was in fact too good to be true, and a whirlwind of feelings.
The emotions she felt reminded her of a vintage washing machine sitting on a grassy lawn, twisting and turning and churning, beating away dull colors and bitter stains that tribulations have left on the t-shirt that was her life. A slap to her pink cheeks, shaking her senses. Or a light punch in the stomach that would awaken the butterflies that had been asleep for far too long.

She couldn't speak about it, not because she didn't want to, but because words would fail to describe the experience.

A smile: your smile. Confined to a several-hundred pixel dimensioned square, but screaming out at me and telling me everything I need to know about you.
It was polite and demure yet devilish, lifting your boyish face up ever so slightly and effortlessly giving you that heavenly glow that most people dream of achieving. I could've stared at it for hours, and at one point, I did. The gleam in your eyes, the contours of your skin, and the million things that could've been running through your head at that moment - I'd analyzed and thought about it all. Simply because I've never seen anything quite like it.

So how did you expect me to react with you standing there in the sweltering heat, with your ghetra billowing around your angelic face? You were right there, in front of me, like an Aurora Boreale radiating a symphony of colors on a calm horizon. Surreal. Did you really expect me to pull myself together?
I covered my eyes time and time again and tried my hardest to give off the impression that I didn't want you to go away. I didn't want you to go. In fact, I wanted to capture every detail of you in a jar and take it with me wherever I went.

There was just no way to describe it all. No words in the dictionary did your eyes justice; wide and wild like an innocent child's, pulling all of the sun's rays into a big beautiful twist and making it beam off of the surface of your pupils. Chocolate. Then hazel. Then honey, and then chocolate all over again. Your curled eyelashes fanned out perfectly, like synchronized swimmers or a line of military soldiers standing tall and ready to protect you.

If I could have taken a thousand pictures, I would've. But even then, the finest resolutions and sharpest lens wouldn't be able to replicate the divinity that is you.

LIGHT YEARS

2010-07-12T22:29:00.000-07:00

The clammy darkness of his hands encased her eyes, like a giant second eyelid that was more difficult to open, more persistant in hiding her vision from what was to come. She could smell the unusual scent of Dior's Fahrenheit and pretzels on his fingers. It was her last night, after a long and beautiful two months, so he'd treated her to a large doughy pretzel from a street vendor, amongst other things.

It wasn't much; other guys would've taken her to a fancy restaurant or bought her exquisite gifts to take home and commemorate the wonderful time she'd had in the city.
He was different, though. He knew she could get any of the finer things she wanted back home - giving her the last taste was the best gift he could give. They'd already spent the slushy cold morning ploughing through the streets, eating cheese pizza slices for breakfast from Mama Sbarro's like she'd requested. Then, they had drifted in and out of art galleries, relishing every drop of paint that their eyes feasted on together. She'd posed in the most ridiculous and hilarious poses beside sculptures and statues, and his arm stretched out in front of them with the camera pointing at them, ready to snap the most candid pictures of them and make the memories everlasting.

He preferred Polaroids. There was something about the instantaneous response from the camera that thrilled him. Back at his apartment, he'd watched her slowly get dressed for the day, slipping her tights on, and then pulling her undershirt over her lacy black bra. They'd become best friends over time, and she'd learned to appreciate his voyeuristic side. He'd spent the earlier hours of the freezing morning sprawled on the couch, snapping away at her with his Polaroid camera, documenting her every move like she was a wild animal in the jungle.

He would miss her, and that was a definite.

The pretzel he'd bought for the both of them was exactly what they needed. The already gloomy sky was becoming more overcast, as if darkened by the sadness of her leaving and going back home. "Don't cry, Concrete Jungle," she smiled, looking up at the sky. "I'll be back soon."
The magnificent skyscrapers dabbled with lit windows looked down on her with such sorrow, as if to say "You'd better be back soon. Please, don't go."
She blew a kiss to the sky as he finished up paying the street vendor for the pretzels, handing her the hot twist of dough in tissue paper. She wolfed the pretzel down like a homeless man would, only then realizing how hungry all that walking had made them. "How about some roti?" she asked.
"Not now," he smiled with satisfaction. She had never tried Trinidadian cuisine before she met him, and when he popped the first piece of roti in her mouth, he sent her up to Heaven and back. Now she wondered how she'd ever go back home to live without it.

She tore off bits of her pretzel and dunked them into the creamy yellow mustard that he held out in the tiny plastic cup. The salty warmth of the dough and the depth of the mustard's flavor settled itself on her lips against the faint sweetness of the slushy rain.
"The city tastes so good," she closed her eyes in bliss.
"It only tastes better when you're here," he enveloped her small hand in his, and they continued their walk.

A block away from their destination, he'd stood behind her and covered her eyes, guiding her through the city bustle as if she were blind, or as if he were teaching a baby how to walk. At first she protested, annoyed with the fact that his hands were stealing her last looks of the people walking by. She wanted to capture every image in her mind, and all he was doing was filtering the images with his dark palms and fingers.
"Shhhh," he hushed into her ear, and for the first time since she got there, his voice had sent warm tingles up and down her spine. "Trust me."
"I do," she closed her eyes underneath the nest of his fingers, as if to affirm her trust for him by blinding herself just a little bit more.

"Good evening, sir," she heard a woman say, and the freezing cold of the February night was replaced with a warmth that only a fireplace in a hotel lobby could bring.
She was right: the elevator dinged and they shuffled into it together like two bodies frozen to one another, his palms still covering her eyes.

"Where are we?" she asked, the frustration and anticipation building up inside of her.
"You'll see," he replied, the smile audible in his voice.

The elevator dinged again, the doors opening and making way for the surprise. The bitter cold slapped them in the face again, and though it was unpleasant on her skin, her insides where bubbling over with excitement.

His fingers made way for her vision.

And what a vision it was.

They were on the rooftop of the AKA Hotel. It wasn't the highest building in the city, but it was high enough. The rooftop was aglow with city lights radiating from the skyscrapers surrounding them. Tall fathers and mothers protecting their beautiful child. She gasped at the wonderous sight.

Gaslamp heaters stood in every corner, watching and waiting to see what will happen next. He led her to a white table with a short vase of white roses (her favorite) in the center.
"What is all this?" she asked in wonder and amazement. The sight took her breath away. He didn't answer, but she was used to his random bouts of silence. His silence spoke words to her and inspired her to ponder and answer her own questions. He challenged her every chance he got, and she loved it. He built her up higher than any tall building, so rigid and strong-willed and determined, with a foundation of the strongest heart.

This moment was for them to cherish. He tucked her hair, which was being whipped around her face by the unruly wind, behind her ear and seated her to a feast of fresh roti, Doubles, curry, and all of her favorite Trini foods which he'd accustomed her to. They ate as if it were their last meal on earth, mopping up the traces of curry on their plates with bits of roti and their fingers, and kissing their fingers clean.

Again, he took her by the hand and helped her up, her body weighed down by the delicious meal. As if on cue, Stevie Wonder's "Love Light In Flight" came on on the surround-sound speakers, serenading them as they danced the night away.
The city lights twinkled over them lovingly, lighting their way as he held her close to his chest and swayed to the smooth disco rhythm.
In her mind, she was at the highest point in life, right below Heaven, gliding through the galaxies in a glass spaceship. No one made her feel that way, and no one will make her feel that way.

All that was left were Polaroids strewn on the apartment floor.

----------------------------------------------
FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE
Theophilus London - Light Years
Theophilus London - Hey Wonderful
Stevie Wonder - Love Light In Flight
D-Train - You're The One For Me
Jean Carne - Was That All It Was?

The Love Harpoon

2010-06-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Oohs and aaahs.

YES.

The Love Harpoon is in full effect.

I don't know what it is, how it is, why it's here and where it came from, but it's eating me alive and I can't shake it away.

It could be day or night, rain or shine; I could be happy or sad.
All of a sudden - out of nowhere - like a fireball or a blazing comet, a fiery pleasureful pain shoots itself into the center of my back and shocks my body. And for that moment, time is suspended and I feel this out-of-body experience where I'm rocketed into outer space in a beautiful dress with no shoes on, my arms and legs and hair flailing about like I'm drowning in a sea of Love. I'm surrounded by stars so big and bright and beautiful, they sparkle more radiantly than a cluster of the finest diamonds.

All of this happens for about three seconds. You know when people say before you die your life flashes before your eyes? It's the same thing, but the difference is the feeling of the BEGINNING of life and not the end. The three seconds are filled with overwhelming love, speckled with hope and the tingle you get in your toes when you jump off a high place.

Sometimes it brings tears in my eyes, but not too often.

I wish you could feel it. For those three seconds, I get to forget my worries and troubles, and feel so insanely good that I just want to put my hands in the air and inhale all the love there is in the world.

Tonight, stand outside; in a parking lot, on a rooftop, anywhere open and airy. Stretch your arms towards the sky and take a deep breath with a smile. Look at the stars.

Multiply that sensation by a million to the power of eternity.

You'll feel it, too.

My First Love

2010-06-25T01:36:00.000-07:00

I was a little older than most girls who'd experienced their first love when my turn came, but it was worth the wait.

It was everything a first love should be.

I don't even remember how it happened. You know how some people say "Don't think about it and it'll come on its own"? This was exactly it. We just fused together after a while of being friends, and it worked itself out. It worked itself out quite perfectly, I must say.

He was (and still is) one of those people that is impossible to ignore and impossible to forget; an electric personality, a million-dollar smile, and eyes so bright they lit up the place. But the thing that stole my heart (besides the beautiful way he loved) was his mind.

He had the mind of a genius. He had a way of piecing words together, knowing when to call, knowing what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. When we were together, nothing else mattered more than the worldly things he had to say and the joy he had to give.
He had the heart of a child. In the day and age we were in, there was so much stress and responsibility, and so many expectations. With him, I was allowed to put all of that aside and be a baby because he let me, and because he needed it, too. We'd laugh for hours on the phone, and when we were out together, we'd do whatever made us happy.
There was one phone conversation I'd never forget; I still hear it in my head sometimes. We were laughing about the Screwy Squirrel and he kept making these funny cartoon noises. The conversation went from hilarious to more serious, and though I can't recall what it was exactly that we were discussing, I do remember that he broke out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter in the middle of our discussion. I had to laugh with him, because his laugh was so damn contagious. I stopped for a second and asked him why he was laughing. He replied, "It's because I'm so happy."

I always remember the lazy summer afternoons and the beautiful nights we spent together laughing, talking, watching movies, eating, and listening to music.

The music he shared with me was probably one of the best parts of our relationship. It was like a movie soundtrack. Every song was introduced and played in perfect timing, at the right moments. And unlike background music, it came forward and tied the 3 or 4 minutes together and making them the most euphoric and divine times anyone could ever experience, or want to experience. Even when he first told me he loved me, he put it in a song. Not only did he put it in a song, but he had written the song and performed it for me, and gave me a single red rose that I still keep pressed in my journal. I had what girls back then (and even today) dream of having.

Our first kiss was expected and unexpected, strange and familiar, happy and hungry all at once. I don't even know how to describe how I felt that day. I literally fell asleep on a cloud that night, despite the hot weather and the annoyances of having a curfew, and all the other little things that came with being an 18-year old. Everything washed itself far far away when I was with him, and knowing I was with him put me on top of the world. I was untouchable, unstoppable, and undeniably the happiest girl in the world.

Even now, years after things fell apart, I still smile when I think of him, and I'll never forget my summer in 2005. All of the songs were pieced together on an iPod playlist, singing a story of a beautiful friendship that blossomed into a perfect first love. And though it was brief, the days felt like years of endless joy and heightened spirits. The memories still give me a temporary high. :)

This post is dedicated to K, who turned a year older a few days ago. Happy birthday, sweetheart, and thank you for the unforgettable days, weeks, and months. :* You're the best :)

1992

2010-06-25T00:57:00.000-07:00

Only some would claim that 1992 was of no significance to them. To me, it was everything. I was only 5 years old then, but I felt the independence of an 18 year old who'd just gotten their license, and the overwhelming joy of a 27 year old who'd finally found the love of her life.

Everyday was love. Everything was perfect.

The simplicity and comfort of having very few friends, or just one best friend, was enough for me. Who cared about boys? Or having a social circle so big you'd get lost in it? Not me. The few friendships I'd formed when I was in the first and second grade were the only bonds I needed to get me through the days.

Sharing wasn't caring. Sharing was something, and caring was another. We were so selfless and young and happy, my friends and I. I remember sitting on the floor during my lunch break everyday at school with four other girls. We'd dump all of our lunches in the center of our little barricade of bodies and eat whatever was in the middle without a single complaint or feeling of resentment towards whoever ate the last piece of chips. Our gossip revolved around which Disney princess was our favorite and why, and which books we wanted to read over the weekend.

So innocent and happy.

Closets consisted of a couple of pairs of jeans, all acid-washed with an elastic waistband (we were too young for buttons), printed t-shirts, and a dress for Eid. There never came a day where I'd look into my closet and think about what to wear - I'd just pull out a bright shirt and a pair of jeans, pull on my favorite sneakers and go. Do you remember the sneakers that lit up whenever you took a step? Or the sneakers that "made you run faster"? I felt on top of the world everytime I put my shoes on, dancing around to Michael Jackson tunes and pretending I was in the Billie Jean video.

Music was another thing. Music was on a whole different level, and I'm sure many of you would agree.
By the year 1992, so many of the greatest artists and songs had set their names in stone and came out with, undeniably, the best music anyone has ever heard. Prince, Michael Jackson, Janet Jackson, and Mariah Carey hold an extremely special place in my heart. Sometimes we were too young to fully understand the depth of their lyrics, but they sounded good and we could sing along, or at the very least, dance to it.
Even now when I listen to Mariah Carey's "Emotions", a wave crashes over me and sucks me into this deep trance and takes me back to 1992. Sunny mornings, wild hair, big smiles, going swimming at Le Meridien with my family and cousins; it was and still is perfection to me.
Even old-school Hip-Hop was everything it should be today. The lyrics were so simple, the beats were so ridiculously fresh, and the song didn't have to be peppered with bad words and negativity for it to work.
The music videos on MTV were relevant to the song, and VERY rarely did you see scantily-clad women exploiting themselves.
Music was everything to me during those years. Everything. You couldn't even compare an iPod filled with songs from the late 80's and early 90's to an iPod filled with today's music. You seriously can't.

There are some days I remember so vividly - laughing so hard in the back of the car with my cousins because we were so outrageously happy. Laughing so hard, in fact, that we warned our aunts that if they didn't slow down on the speed bumps, we might pee ourselves.
When was the last time you laughed so hard for no reason?
I can't remember either.

If I had one wish, it would be to bring 1992 back, forever. Every year should be 1992. There's so much more that I wish I could put into words, but sometimes words don't do the feeling justice.

Tell me some of your thoughts and memories :) I'd love to read what you all have to say!

Tagged!

2010-06-02T12:25:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged by the lovely Glitter!

So this tag is called Il-Taj Il-Sultani.. I would upload the picture thingy that's supposed to go with it, but I'm clueless when it comes to stuff like this.
Anyways, so the tag says that I have to tell my beautiful followers 6 secrets of mine. Whoever knows who I am or doesn't, I don't care. I really have nothing to hide so whatevs! Here goes!

1. More often than not, I think about running away. Not just leaving my house, but leaving Kuwait. Running off to a big beautiful city that's so enriched with culture and life and REAL people. The thought of it gives me goosebumps, and there are days when I'd give up my family for a taste of another life.

2. I wish I never dated. Not because of the whole reputation thing (I could care less), but because of all the days, months, and years spent worrying about the significant other and crying and all the other sad bits that come with a relationship. A word of advice, spend every moment you can with a smile on your face.

3. The thought of marriage, which was once so beautiful and sacred to me, repulses me now. I secretly feel sorry for all my friends who are married, because 90% of them are miserable. I just pretend to be interested in committment when I'm around them.

4. As much as I regret ever knowing Mubarak and hating him for what he did to me, a little piece of me misses him so much. It always will.

5. I can never forgive my dad for leaving. I don't care how happy he is in his new life; I think what he did was extremely selfish.

6. I stole a piece of gum from the baqala when I was a kid once, and when my mom asked me if I had paid for it, I nodded. I still think about it till this day, and I still feel like crap.

There. I said it. LOL.

I tag whoever wants to do this thing. Link me back to your blog in the comments section if you did this tag! I'd love to pick your brains :)

Love Yourself

2010-05-12T03:08:00.000-07:00

LeQuan heaved her baby pink backpack over her broad shoulders, sighing at the added weight on her back. Her muscles ached. Her bones were tired. Her feet were sore. But no matter how far she walked everyday or how little she ate, the massive rolls of fat seemed to make deeper folds in her skin, pushing against her heart and making it ache. Even breathing was hard - she had to pace her steps precisely so that she wouldn't breath too loud or too hard; "The Bulldog" as her neighbor's kid called her.

She tried to shuffle out of the door as quietly as possible, but her mother's voice resonated through the puff of smoke from her joint. "You better walk to school. Don't be takin' no buses. You better walk all that fucking weight off."

LeQuan nodded slowly, running her hand against her hair. "Bye," she mumbled, and continued making her way out onto the landing of the run-down apartment building in which she lived. She shifted her schoolbag time and time again, its heavy weight pushing the hooks of her bra deeper into her skin.
LeQuan was the only one in the 5th grade that wore a "real" bra. All the other girls wore light undershirts, or cotton training bras for the budding teenagers. She, on the other hand, had to steal an old bra from her mother to support the heavy load on her chest.

Just thinking about walking down the long winding road to her school made small beads of sweat form on her upper lip. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, and wiped the back of her hand on her weathered jeans. The walk of shame began.
People walking on the sidewalks would always throw nasty comments at LeQuan, especially the younger boys. Always making stupid quips about her weight. "I'll show them. Someday," LeQuan would think to herself.

The sun beat down mercilessly against her forehead, causing more sweat to dribble down the sides of her face. The heat made her clothes cling to her body. Added weight. Sweat stains in the most unforgivable places. LeQuan felt the perspiration form between the folds of fat on her belly and her back.
"Fatass," a boy in his early teens yelled, lowering the volume on his boom box to make his voice heard.

LeQuan thought of glaring at him with her tiny slits for eyes, but she knew that his retaliation would be much stronger; more painful.
Just like the other day when she'd told a boy to shut up after he'd called her a whale. He'd thrown his tin lunchbox at her heavy-set legs, hurting her. The contents of his lunchbox spilled out onto the concrete pavement, and a hungry LeQuan had examined them quickly before hurrying on her way to school - an apple, some carrot sticks, and a juice box. "Are you gonna eat that?" the boy had roared, cocking his head to the side like he was ready to fight. "Fucking whale. Go on!"
She put her thumbs underneath the straps of her heavy backpack and continued walking, a multitude of colorful threats chasing her.

School was no different. LeQuan sat in the back of her class and had no friends, except for this one scrawny Mexican girl, Amelia, that hung around her because she was the only girl in class that couldn't speak English as well as the rest of the students. Amelia got called names too; Wetback. Illegal immigrant. Taco breath. The list went on.
LeQuan and Amelia would sit on the steps leading to the playground, and Amelia would give LeQuan half of her sandwich everyday. "Quieres mitad de mi bocadillo?" she'd ask in her squeaky voice, and LeQuan would nod slowly as she watched Amelia part her sandwich in half. They ate the same cream cheese sandwich everyday, but LeQuan didn't complain. She never got to eat cream cheese at home, or anywhere else, for that matter.

By the time LeQuan came home everyday, she was soaked from head to toe in her own sweat. Funny enough, the scale gave her the same number everyday. Sometimes it would go up a little, but never down. She would sit under the shower head and scrub herself silly, as if the weight would come off the harder she scrubbed.
Lunch was deep fried. Everyday. It was the easiest way for her mother to cook - frying anything and everything in hot oil or lard so that her child would be full and so that she could go back to smoking joints and watching old TV shows.

LeQuan would be too hungry to refuse a meal, and though she understood how too much grease could clog her arteries and kill her, she didn't care. Sitting on her ratty bed and staring at the pictures of modelesque black girls on her wall made her want to die anyways. When she'd close her eyes to sleep, she'd imagine herself to be as skinny and flawless as Halle Berry. Halle was her favorite.

She remembered as a child when her father would pick her up and hoist her over his shoulders. His laughing angelic face was one she'd never forget, and everytime he'd parade through the hallways with LeQuan on his shoulders, she'd feel invincible and free. "My little bluebird," he'd sing to her. "There's a bluebird on my shoulder!"
He'd always sing songs from "Song of the South" to her, and her heart would swell with love for him and his beautiful voice.
One day, when she was 6, she'd woken up and searched the house for him. But he was long gone by then. Trying to decipher the few words she understood from her mother's scream-fests with her grandmother, LeQuan knew that her father found out about her mother's love affair with drugs.
LeQuan wondered where he was now, or how different things would be if he was still here. She would be happier. Maybe even smarter. She'd be thinner, for sure.

But she wasn't. And that is the reality of an obese child growing up in a world that is depleted of love and care, and abundant with hate.

Elevator Man (Pt. 6)

2010-05-11T03:39:00.000-07:00

Things with Elevator Man went well. Well, they are going well. Smoothly. But still unsure.

You know when you think you know what you want? And even though the person in front of you is perfect on paper, your heart is giving you these huge flashing warning signs?

Warning signs, not because the person you're currently in a situation with is a bad person, but just because you know deep down in your heart of hearts it's not what you want? Or who you want?

Maybe I'm being too confusing. Maybe I don't even know what I really want and I'm just having self issues, which is usually the case.
But this time around, something is telling me to stop. I need to stop looking for committment in all the wrong places.
Soccer, going to the beach, and talking about taking trips isn't all I want in a man. He doesn't have to be gorgeous. I could honestly care less about that.

When your mind conjures up some cosmic superhuman person that, in your world, is perfect for you, you stop caring about petty things. Who cares about a family name? Or how long he's worked? Or whatever?

Am I rambling? :)

I'm just saying that, yes, although Elevator Man is every girl's dream man, after a lot of pondering and a few times of sitting with him and texting him, he is not mine.

My dream man has more to talk about than what he read in the newspaper. He has more to say than "Good" when I ask him how he is. He has dreams. He has accomplishments and ambitions. He can talk to me all day and all night, and every word he utters will be food for my soul.
My dream man inspires me to do more than just look good for him. He loves me just the way I am, and doesn't make me try too hard. Not that he's easy to please, but he's humble. And simple. And friendly. And committed. With so much focus and drive that he wouldn't let our relationship be a constant. Always exciting, always down for an adventure or a good laugh.

My dream man will walk with me in the rain and splash through puddles, and play tic-tac-toe with me on a coffeeshop napkin. He'll share his slice of pizza and his noodle bowl, and wouldn't mind going to dinner at 3 AM in some hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

There are just so many things. So many things that my dream man would do, and Elevator Man wouldn't.

I hate one-word answers. You are not a parrot, and I am not your therapist. I expect more. I deserve more. And I will get more.

To all of you ladies reading this right now, have a sit-down with yourself and ask yourself, honestly. Honestly. Are you happy?

I don't know what else to say other than DON'T SETTLE. Your life is yours and no one else's. When you're married to a man who is perfect on paper but makes your life boring and miserable, Mommy and Daddy aren't gonna save you.

Wooooh! This is so insanely informal. Not my usual way of expressing myself on here, but it's hard to be poetic when the person you're discussing is as exciting as a piece of toast (untoasted).

So Elevator Man is still around, as a friend. That is all I want from him.
Just thought you should know. :)

Elevator Man (Pt. 5)

2010-04-16T03:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Elevator Man (Pt. 4)

2010-04-13T23:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Elevator Man (Pt. 3)

2010-04-09T03:14:00.001-07:00

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.

Elevator Man (Pt. 2)

2010-03-30T22:24:00.000-07:00

The days at her new job flew by like shooting stars in the night sky. Hours felt like minutes, and with every task completed, the pang in her heart for Mubarak died. In almost a week's time, Mubarak was nothing but a distant memory; a faint vapor of what used to be an ocean of emotions.

She flitted from office to office, smiling to herself and feeling jolts of empowerment with every step she took. There was nothing more gratifying to her than the feeling of self-sufficiency. She didn't need Mubarak. He could curl up and die for all she cared; she was independent and working her way up from the dark hole he'd thrown her in.

Though she remained on the 4th floor, her mind was up on the 6th floor. As many coincidences as she'd have with Elevator Man, her thoughts were floating way past the confinements of her skull. Thoughts of what he was doing, eating, reading, and thinking crowded her brain and made her feel deliriously excited.

Elevator Man was a man of few words. When they'd coincide in the elevators, he'd catch a glimpse of her radiant smile, and smile to himself, lowering his head. He'd never speak to her, or anyone, for that matter.
One morning, she'd walked into a near full elevator to find him standing in the corner, towering over the shorter employees and pressing his rippled back against the elevator walls. His hands were clasped, and he nervously twiddled his mesba7 between his fingers. The heady scent of his bu5oor filled her chest cavity as she quitely said, "Salam".
His voice was the only one she heard. "Salam," his husky voice replied, sending tingles down her spine and numbing her chest.
To her dismay, the elevator ride ended too soon, and she was out on the 4th floor again, climbing her ladder to recovery.

Every drive home gave her a natural high - eight hours of hard work and praises from her manager gave her the perfect boost to last her the rest of the day. She'd roll the windows down and let the beautiful spring air in, and crank up the volume on the sweetest country songs. Everything that hurt faded away with Faith Hill's soothing voice, although they were love songs, and every girl knows not to listen to love songs after extreme emotional scarring.

But something inside of her, in her heart, was bursting so wildly that she felt it pushing against her ribcage, seeping out of her skin like nectar from a peach.

Was it love? It couldn't be. It felt like it, though.
It felt like the love flower that was once wilted and withered had decomposed and regenerated in her being, blossoming and unfurling it's new vibrant petals through her limbs.
She felt brand new, and it was because of him.
The thrill of infatuation consumed her, and in no time, he became the sole reason for her waking up, getting dressed, making it to work on time, and giving her work her all.
He made her feel beautiful, desirable, strong, healthy, and happy.
Without speaking a single word.

Elevator Man

2010-03-27T00:47:00.000-07:00

February 1st was a new beginning.
After the traumatic heartbreak she'd experienced during the weekend of January 19th, she was lucky enough to have a week off from work to regain her composure and pull herself together.
Ten agonizing days of holding her tears back and biting her tongue whenever she was about to say his name passed by, and with every swipe of her Visa card, she spent him away. Every shirt, every skirt, every pair of shoes filled the huge void that had invaded her vulnerable heart. Whenever she came home with heaps of shopping bags, her mother said nothing and would give a sympathetic smile and a huge hug. "It'll all change when you start your new position," her mother promised.

The morning of February 1st was a blur. Starting a new position in a new building was exactly what she needed, and she wanted to dress the part of the new employee, fresh and ready for action. She got dressed in the cutest and most professional outfit she could find in her closet, and headed off to work with hopes of a day free of heartache.

She stood by the elevator, waiting for a familiar face to come by and make her feel like less of a stranger. Swarms of employees rushed in and out of the building while she waited patiently for an elevator that wasn't crowded. She could feel the heat of embarrassment and insecurity prickle her face and the back of her neck as the elevator waiting area grew crowded. Something in her heart told her to look around; to study the faces of the people that will play a part in her new life.

That is when her eyes locked into his gaze. He was standing approximately a meter away from her, fixating his eyes onto her cascading locks and flushed cheeks. Had it not been for the amount of embarrassment she'd cause herself, her knees would've buckled and her legs would've given way and let her crash to the marble floor.
He was beautiful. Not beautiful in a Mubarak way, but beautiful. His thick low-set eyebrows almost obscured his wide eyes, which were surrounded by thick long eyelashes. His lips formed a soft pout, and his goatee was perfectly trimmed. His crisp white dishdasha emanated the sweet scent of bu5oor and dihn 3ood; the perfect scent for a cool winter morning.

'Is everyone else smelling what I smell?' she thought to herself, amazed. 'Is everyone else seeing what I see? Why isn't anyone as blown away as I am??'

She'd stared for a second too long before she lowered her head in discomfiture, but his eyes never left her form. She could feel him stare at her, and her pulse raced a mile a minute. While adjusting her purse strap against her shoulder, the elevator pinged, as if signaling the end of a moment; time for you to take her eyes off of her. She sighed in relief at the thought of the comfortable seclusion of the elevator, praying silently that he'd take the next one.

He gently pushed through the hoarde of half-asleep employees and squeezed into the almost-full elevator, standing less than twenty centimeters away from her. The scent of his bu5oor dizzied her, and she looked up, closing her eyes in bliss.
"Sixth floor, please," his voice broke her train of fantasies.
"Fourth floor, please," she chimed in, and the stout Indian man standing closest to the elevator buttons pressed his pudgy fingers against the numbers.

The ride up was quiet, the air thick with awkward tension. The bell sounded for the fourth floor, and she took a deep breath, strategizing in her mind how she was going to get out of the elevator without pressing herself against his tall muscular body.
Luckily for her, another employee was getting off on the same floor, making way for her exit. She slipped out of the elevator, and it was only when she heard the doors close behind her that her heart stopped pounding against her ribcage.

Would there be a place in the future for her Elevator Man? Only the days to come would tell.

Venus Fly Trap

2010-03-17T04:37:00.000-07:00

It's been harder than granite bricks.
Harder than concrete blocks.
Harder than angry blue waves crashing against the boulders that lined the sea.
So hard and miserable without him.

He left her standing in the dark, with her eyes wide open in disbelief, in front of his car as he sat in the plush seats with another girl.
The feeling she felt was ridiculously overwhelming; she didn't know whether to scream, cry, laugh, or curse. So she did all of those things at once.
In the dark shaded parking area in Kaifan, she found him, when he'd promised for months that he missed her and still had feelings for her. And that he just "couldn't", rather than he "didn't want to".

He left her standing in the mist of her rage and the downpour of her tears as he sheepishly hung his head. In shame? In shock of being found out? She will never know.
He ran his fingers through his hair as she once did, slicking it back under his cap and trying to gain composure and explain himself - explain himself to the other girl that was sitting next to him, confused as to why there was another girl standing right in front of his car in hysterics and not moving.

In haste, he revved up the engine and slithered out of the parking lot like the snake that he is, and escaped the ear-shattering sounds of her cries - the cries that he once went out of his way to pacify. Little did he know that her cries will forever haunt him, and that she'll never let him forget.

The days after him were less. Less of food, less of sleep, less of smiles. She deprived herself of everything but the flashbacks of that night, and they played in her head like a short film over and over again.
Hate filled every vein in her being, and every breathe she took and every word she spoke for the days after exuded anger and disgust for him and for all men. When men tried to approach her, she started to feel sick to her stomach - literally. When men followed her in the car with an intention to get to know her, she'd scream in the sanctuary of her car so that they'd see her discomfort and go away.

Every relationship trial afterwards was an error. When she felt like her heart has opened up a little, she'd remember the heartbreaking night of January 19th. And like a Venus Fly Trap, her heart would seal it's small opening up and shut every potential person out.
Even when the best men came forward; funny, smart, handsome, caring, and sweet, she didn't want to be with any of them. The mere thought of getting her heart broken again was something she couldn't fathom.

And so her journey alone began on the 20th of January.
It's been harder than granite bricks.
Harder than concrete blocks.
Harder than angry blue waves crashing against the boulders that lined the sea.
So hard and miserable without him.

Sheepskin

2009-11-06T23:28:00.000-08:00

"Yalla, I'm waiting," her friend had said bluntly.
"Give me a minute, I'm leaving now" she replied, before hanging up and throwing her phone on her messy bed.
She opened the doors to her closet in search of a jacket. The wind howled outside and she could see the tiny droplets of rain flick themselves against her windows. Something warm.. Something to keep her dry.. The choices were infinite. Puffy ski jackets, smart blazers, crocheted capes and bright ponchos filled the racks, and she ran her hands along her collection of clothing until her hands stopped, feeling down the one jacket she proudly owned but never wore in public.
Gingerly pulling it off of the hanger, she inspected her sheepskin jacket. It was so elegant yet so worn out; the years had weathered the soft leather lining and matted the wool of the vintage piece, but it only gave it more character.

She slid her lean arms into the sleeves, putting the jacket on. The putrid smell of sheepskin always made her gag - one reason why she never wore it - but she craned her neck, elevating her head above the stench. Looking herself over once again in the mirror, she smiled at how ridiculously small she looked in the jacket. Like a pea in the pod, the jacket enveloped her, almost diminishing her upper body from existance. But that's exactly how she liked it. As small as she looked, she felt powerful. The shaggy wool had curled from the previous nights of rain, broadening her shoulders with rich hues of champagne, tan, and a deep chocolate brown.
Underneath the heavy jacket, she wore thick black leggings and a matching bodycon top, outlining her perfect figure that was hidden by the big beautiful jacket.
In her boots, she felt taller. With the jacket, she practically lurched when she walked, looking like a broad and strong woman with direction. In actuality, she felt as lost as the sheep that adorned her back, as cold as a child without his mother, and as frail as a praying mantis in the blowing desert wind.
Still, she walked, checking her reflection in the picture frames, in every mirror, in any surface that relayed her image back to her until she was finally out the door and into her car.

She sat in silence for the longest time after revving up the engine, and she ran her hands up and down the curly fur of her sleeves. Closing her eyes, she imagined running her hands through his hair the way she used to when they'd kiss passionately, and the way her fingers would carress the sparse hairs on his chest when he'd cradle her in his arms.
Yes, this jacket was all about him: the way it warmed her and protected her, the way the curling wool felt under the soft touch of her fingertips, the way the brown patches of color reminded her of the deep pools of cocoa in his eyes. Her love for him suffocated her the way the smell of the jacket invaded her nostrils. It was always about him. Every decision, every thought, every purchase was made with him in the back of her mind. She slowly backed out into the street and drove onto the endless highway.

'Wainik?' she thought to herself. 'Where in these streets are you? Who's house are you in? What are you eating? What are you saying?' Her fingers, which were starting to numb, grasped at the tendrils of sheep wool on her sleeve, desperately trying to absorb whatever feeling pertaining to him that the coat could bring her.
At the traffic light, she rested her head against the fogging icy window, gazing through the cloudy condesation. Her neck ached from twisting and turning in search of his car, and her eyes grew tired of straining themselves to find him. A lock of hair, a scruffy beard, a doe-like eye, a pearly smile - anything that could be him or a part of him made her ache.

A car inched closer to her, and the driver looked up at her. His large brown eyes and curling lashes gaped at her in awe - she was the most beautiful thing he'd laid eyes on, and she hadn't changed a bit. He gazed at her and she stared back at him while her stomach did somersaults, her heart fluttered, and her knees buckled. He flashed his million-dollar smile at her, and she let herself melt into the now hot sheepskin overcoat. Driving off as soon as the light turned green, she watched him speed ahead and turn into a residential area - probably going to the diwaniya.

Her coat felt brand new for the first time in the 30 years since its creation. Like the reincarnation of a lost soul that has been found, the coat seeped its liveliness into her skin as tears of joy danced on her lower eyelashes.

This is what you do to me.

Renewal

2009-10-10T22:43:00.000-07:00

For the first time in a long time, she'd diverted her phone calls. She rarely did so, even when she'd have fall outs in her previous relationships. Her friends would always encourage her to - "Don't be so available! Let him wonder where you are!"
'Haha,' she laughed pathetically to herself. 'If I divert my calls from now till the end of time, I know that I'm gonna be the one wondering where he is.'
It had been too long, in fact, that she had to call Zain's service center and ask the polite man on the other end of the line what the MissU number was. He seemed worried about the warble in her voice, but it was hard to fight the tears that she knew so well were coming. "Ya36eek il3afya," she said.
She quickly punched the number into her beat-up phone and watched as the hypnotic blue line requested the divert. "Diverts activated," she read with a sigh.

Tucked under the warmth of her Classic Rose Cath Kidston sheets, she let her head loll back against her baby pink pillows. She reached her arms out for the only beige pillow from the set, the one she'd deliberately chosen to name after him. It was the lumpiest and most uncomfortable pillow to sleep on, but she felt so secure when she hugged it late at night, in the midst of her joys, fears, and cloudy thoughts.
Wrapping her arms around the lumpy cotton pillow, she whispered his name. A single tear trickled down her cheek, beckoning more tears before it settled as a wet drop in the flimsy pillowcase. 'I miss you.. I love you so much.."

Her phone beeped continuously with messages. Some were from MissU, while the rest were from random people. Where was he? Why isn't his name lighting up the screen like it used to? Through her blurred vision, she picked up her phone and typed a short and quick message to him. She hadn't done so in a while; not since the time he cut her off with his angry words. His voice still resounded in her head - words of rage, words of love, his laughter.. She even remembered the way he'd greet her on the phone. His "Aloo" was so distinct, and it made her smile every time.

"i miss u so much.. Gnite.."

The beeps continued; people she didn't feel like talking to at all were messaging her with their petty small talk and useless gossip. Message after message was received, and with every vibration she prayed that his name would be among them. But ultimately, her mind told her that what she did was a huge mistake and that he wouldn't reply, leaving her with more pain and the hurt of rejection. That was when the phone beeped for the last time that night.

"Me 2"

The tears seemed to dry instantly, tightening her cheeks as they elevated into a smile - the first genuine smile that day. She kissed her phone screen, salty with tears, and re-read the two-word message at least 20 times before realizing their magnitude, albeit their small size. He missed her "so much", too. She wasn't standing alone in the middle of a battlefield, and she knew that there was someone out there - the someone she wanted and loved - that missed her and needed her.

Her vision book, the book that used to be her favorite, sat patiently on her bedside table. It's been a while since she'd looked through it and visualized her dreams, but her dreams were once shot and the book became nothing but a painful reminder of the dreams she couldn't achieve. She picked it up and gingerly opened it to the front page, tracing her finger along his name, picture, and the beautiful poetry he'd once dedicated to her. Sometimes we forget that the heart is stronger. You can live brain dead, but you can't survive without a heart. It was all coming back, and something inside her told her so.

Wow...

2009-10-03T22:58:00.000-07:00

Seriously.. It's been a while, huh?
*dusts this blog off*
First of all let me say that you guys are the best fans/readers/supporters/friends anyone could ever ask for.. It wasn't easy at ALL leaving this blog alone. Thoughts and sayings and phrases clouded my brain everywhere I went and all I could think of was "I should blog about this!". But I couldn't. Everything was hard for me, and it still is.
I may be great at giving advice, but like most of us, I'm not good at taking it. I can't take my own advice and I have tremendous difficulty taking other peoples' advice. Why? Just because my heart is louder than my brain sometimes... No. All the time.
The reason why I stopped is because one of the best people that had come along in my life left. My inspiration was gone and still is. And I fought for days, weeks, now months on end to bring him back but all my efforts were futile and only hurt me more when I was pushed away. But I'm still fighting. I promised that I would never give up on him and I'm not, no matter how far he is, no matter how much it hurts, even if he's moved on or not.
I still believe in love and you all should too, and when you lose someone DON'T GIVE UP on them. Give yourself hope and maybe one day the universe will smile back at you and bring him back your way. I'm still smiling on the outside and fighting on the inside. It's not easy, especially when there's a world of an audience watching, waiting for the next move from my end or his end. Funny thing is, I'm sitting front row center. I feel like I'm not me, and I tell my friends this all the time. No one really gets it, but I'm sure someone out there feels that way too.
It's not easy to smile. It's not easy to sleep. It's not easy to eat. It's not easy to write. And it's not easy to love. But I'm trying.
If you ever come across this page one day, by accident, on purpose, and read it and know that I'm talking about you, I want you to know that I love you and that I've never stopped and that I never will stop, no matter where life takes us, and that no one in this world will love you the way I do.
I'll be back very soon :* I love you all..

I Wish I Was A Fly..

2009-04-12T13:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 33)

2009-04-12T01:56:00.000-07:00

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) +++++

Sweet Summer Heat

2009-04-03T16:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Sorry everyone..

2009-03-07T11:50:00.001-08:00

I know I've been a super bad blogger bes walla I'm going through a really rough time right now oo I'm trying to get myself through a few things.. So, Chicken Soup's on hiatus for a little bit.. Ed3ooli :( I really really need it..
Hugs and kisses to all of you..

E-mail for stuff..

2009-02-19T01:34:00.000-08:00

Hey girlies and guys :)
I created a new e-mail account for those who want to send e-mails or ask for advice or whatever the case may be. The e-mail is chicken.soup.q8@hotmail.com :)
Hope to hear from you!

The Grumpy Tag ;p

2009-02-17T13:19:00.000-08:00

Tagged by 7aLeeB KaKaW ;***

1. Put a picture of any grumpy person.

2. Then Mention 3 things that are just abnormal.
- My mother's obsession with "fa5ama"
- Mit7ajbat + leggings
- Boys that haven't hit puberty yet (or probably don't even know what puberty is) hitting on girls old enough to be their mother. THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! WAI3!

3. Two things that irritate you.
- When people talk to me and ask me questions when they can see that I'm on the phone with someone else.
- When people barge into my room without knocking, and even when they see that I'm praying/getting dressed/busy with something, they still hang around!

4. One trigger to your anger.
- When akoon 7adddddi mishta6a for a 6al3a oo I spend hours getting ready and expecting the best, and two minutes before the event, the person cancels or yakser feeni in an equally distressing way.

5. Three people you can't live without.
- Mama ;* 7ayati Mama!
- Il-Semi ;*~
- Pigeon ;***

6. Two of people you don't want to see.
- Two crazy chicks that I was with in univ.. 7mdilla wishikir.. Their brains combined probably amount to 3/4 of an actual human being, so I gave them the benefit of the doubt and counted them as one person. Is that okay?
- The idiot who robbed Il-Semi :/ If I see your face I'll break it, I swear. 7alaya 7awajbich chinna a7ad rasem 3ala yabhitich with a Sharpie marker. And I'm not talking about the thin ones either. No, I'm talking about the ones they use for street tagging.

7. One of your favorite foods.
- Pizza, without a doubt. Pepperoni with pineapples willi ma ya3jeba yi6ig rasa bilferen ;p

8. Three of your favorite songs.
- 3abood 5owaja - A'6naytani Bil-Hajr ;********
- Lloyd - Girls All Around The World (Ft. Lil' Wayne) (If I don't hear this song at least once a day, I feel incomplete :* and Lloyd if you ever ever read this, I love you and I wanna be in your next video.)
- M7amed 3abdu - '3areeb Il-Dar

Tag only 5 people:
Whoever wants to do this. That means:
- You
- You
- You
- You
- You

Happy Valentine's Day!

2009-02-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

Hey all :)
♥♥Just wanted to wish everyone a happy Valentine's day oo inshallah today and all your days are filled with wreckless love and the best surprises ;* Thanks for making this blog a part of you.. I'm so grateful for all of you! Love you!!♥♥

And to my inspiration: May I never have to experience a day or night without you in my life. You'll always have me :* I love you more than words could ever tell. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 32)

2009-02-12T04:47:00.000-08:00

Jawhara and Mbarak met at Caribou Coffee Free Zone, just as they had planned earlier. The stout Indian man behind the counter greeted them both with a big smile eating up his face. “Hello, Miss Jawhara; how are you?”
“Hi, Shaikh,” Jawhara smiled at him, and let her eyes scan the massive selection of cold and hot drinks.
“T3arfeen isma, ba3ad?” Mbarak asked, playfully wiggling his eyebrows at her.
“Barook, wai3,” Jawhara giggled at his absurd suggestive gesture, and proceeded to order a Spice Tea.
“No Turtle Mocha today?” Shaikh asked as he tapped in the order onto the touch-screen register.
“No,” Jawhara smiled, “Maybe tomorrow. Shino tabi Barooki?”
“White Mocha, please,” Mbarak ordered his drink and placed his hand on the small of Jawhara’s back. She looked up at him lovingly while he paid for the drinks, and as soon as they received their orders, they headed back to Mbarak’s car.
“That’s it?” Jawhara asked, confused. “We’re leaving?”
“Laaaa2!” he growled, taking a quick sip of his stinging hot White Mocha. “Fee my special spot around here; nig3ad hnak.”
“You’re cheating on Bnaider?” Jawhara raised an eyebrow.
“La, Bnaider il7ub – ma7ad yi9ik 3alaiha,” Mbarak smiled as he opened the passenger door for Jawhara.
“Wana?” Jawhara teased, looking up at his gorgeous face with a pout.
“Intay,” Mbarak began, pressing her head into his chest and kissing her soft hair, “Intay ilkil bilkil. Yalla 3umri, rikbay.”
Jawhara giggled and hoisted herself up into the high seat of Mbarak’s Silverado. Their drive was relatively quiet, and the car was enveloped in a comforting darkness because of the night sky and Mbarak’s heavily tinted windows. Jawhara sighed with a smile, staring out the window and then diverting her attention to Mbarak, who was tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. Mbarak then turned the music up a little louder and mumbled, “Sim3ay, ehda2.”
3abadi Johar, one of Jawhara’s favorite musicians, twiddled and strummed his 3ood and let his deep voice fill the car’s speakers. “3eshagtik Gabl Ma Ashoofik, Oo Shiftik - 9irt Killi 7ilm.. Abi Rimshik Yi’3a6eeni Wabeek Agrab Min Anfaaasi!”
Jawhara kissed the back of Mbarak’s hand and tightened the grip of her fingers intertwined with his, and she sank back into the plush seat in pure bliss.

The road twisted and turned until they reached a quiet area of the Free Trade Zone; one without any coffee shops and restaurants, and without any offices either. An eerie collection of abandoned warehouse compartments huddled together in the cold lonely night, hoping that one day someone would come, fill them with products, and bring them back to life. The perfectly aligned blocks of brick-orange and forest-green boasted their company’s names in bright white paint, and Jawhara’s eyes flitted from one to the next, wondering if there was any company she recognized. To her dismay, she didn’t recognize any of the abbreviations.
Mbarak led her by the hand to the point where the pavement met the sea, and they looked down at the piled up boulders that supported the man-made land. After Jawhara brutally rejected the idea of sitting on the boulders for fear of being bitten by rats or stung by mites and mosquitoes, they resorted to sitting directly on the pavement, their legs propped up against the large rocks. The washed out tide, surprisingly, didn’t smell as bad as it did on the other side of the Free Trade Zone, and they embraced the pungent salty air by taking a deep breath, filling up their chest cavities with the air like it was a drug. They sat, bodies resting against one another, with nothing to illuminate their evening but a platinum full moon.
“Jawharti?” Mbarak asked softly, looking up from the point where their toes touched.
“3umri,” Jawhara replied, stroking her cheek against his burly upper arm.
“Are you happy? With me, I mean,” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she shook her head lightly, a wistful smile painting her lips. She set the paper cup of tea on the damp pavement, and instantly, she longed for the warmth it brought to her palms. Instead, she crammed her hands into the small kangaroo pockets of her Juicy training suit.
“Madri, as2al. Aham shay innich mirta7a,” Mbarak affirmed, to himself mostly. ‘As long as I was making her happy, I won’t have to worry about a thing.’
“Mirta7a oo nu9,” she repeated, exhaling to the world the deep pleasure that has been settling in her heart. But, as always with Jawhara, curiosity got the best of her, and she was eager to find out why Mbarak would ask such a random question at a random time. “Inzain, I have a question.”
“Si2lay,” he smiled his million-dollar smile, the small mark of his dimples outlined by the moonlight.
“Inta 7abait min gabel?” Jawhara asked, turning the tables. But to her surprise, Mbarak answered with ease.
“Ee; mako a7ad ma 7ab,” he replied quietly and rather quickly. His fingers traced the edges of the white plastic cover of his White Mocha. Before Jawhara could pry and ask any more questions, he explained everything briefly to her. “She was a good girl; we had a lot of problems though, and in the end I’d found out that she resorted to talking to other guys to make herself feel better.”
“How’d you find out?” Jawhara wondered. She couldn’t help but feel a ting of jealousy piercing her heart, but no Kuwaiti man was a tabula rasa, as her psychology professor had once put it. There was always some sort of disfigurement to the clean state, whether it was a tiny scratch on the surface or a deep gash that ate it’s way to the very core. Jawhara began to see herself as a miniscule perforation in the giant carving board that was Mbarak.
“He was my friend,” Mbarak sighed, staring out at the murky blotches of water.
“Ouch,” Jawhara sucked her breath, and instinctively leaned against his shoulder.
She wanted to be more than just a perforation. She didn’t want to be a painful slash across the gleaming slate – she wanted to be an intricate carving; one so beautiful and breathtaking that no one would dare try to destroy it’s presence on the slate or vandalize it. “I’m sorry.”
“3adi, 6af; that was a long time ago,” Mbarak brought his face close to Jawhara’s. His warm breath stroked her cheeks and she inhaled the sweet scent of White Mocha.
“You don’t think about her?” Jawhara refused to believe that that was the end of her. The Ex-Files always seemed to re-open when two people were in a perfect relationship – something always has to get in the way.
Mbarak shook his head. “Ana bes afaker feech. 5athaitay 3agli walla..”

Jawhara wanted more than anything to kiss him at that moment. The closeness of his face, the cool night air, the words he’d so swiftly spoken; it was all too perfect to pass up the chance. Just as if he was reading her thoughts, his eyes shifted back and forth rapidly to her eyes, then her lips, and back to her eyes again. Not knowing how to initiate anything without scaring Jawhara, Mbarak tipped his head closer to hers, and she responded by doing the same. Her eyes were fixated on his lips, which slowly began to part as he moved closer to hers. A funny sound escaped Jawhara’s throat, semi-ruining what could’ve been the perfect kiss.
“Shfeech?” Mbarak whispered, his warm breath cutting through the chilly air. She shyly shook her head and felt his move closer and closer to hers until his warm lips planted themselves onto her lips.
Jawhara took a deep breath and let all of her senses pause whatever they would normally feel and just enjoy the sensation of Mbarak’s lips and tongue. He parted Jawhara’s lips with slight pressure from his own and proceeded to let his tongue explore the tenderness of her mouth. A sweet coat of White Mocha lingered on his tongue, which Jawhara savored as it trailed across her tongue. Mbarak was so obviously hungry for this kiss that he had to restrain himself from letting go of his inhibitions and turning it into a sloppy kiss.
But it didn’t matter to Jawhara; the kiss was everything she’d wanted it to be. It reminded her of the softness she’d appreciate every time she’d run her butter knife through a packet of cream cheese, or when frosting a cupcake – moist, supple, and airy, but not too wet. Mbarak cupped her face in his cold hands, not wanting her to break free as his lips plunged deeper into hers. The steady rhythmic movements of their lips and tongues continued until a soft buzzing sound came from Jawhara’s pockets. The light of her mobile’s screen flashed, anxiously waiting for Jawhara to acknowledge it. She groaned with irritation, her lips still locked with Mbarak’s, until he withdrew them in a perfectly faded end to the most beautiful kiss Jawhara had ever experienced.
Ignoring her phone, Jawhara’s eyes stayed locked on Mbarak’s. He looked so love drugged that his eyes felt bleary and a goofy smile spread across his lips. “Di5t,” he stated, pulling her against his chest. Through his white Polo crest sweater, she could hear his heart beat wildly in her ear. He kissed the smooth line where her forehead met her hair. “You are so beautiful.”
“Hey, bes; asti7i,” Jawhara mumbled, hiding her blushing face deeper into Mbarak’s sweater.
“Ma n5ale9 min hal mista7a,” he joked, stroking her wavy hair.
Jawhara had almost forgotten about the missed call that waited eagerly to be recognized, and when she pulled out her mobile phone, a strange stream of numbers that she couldn’t identify boasted itself on the top of her missed calls list. “Who is this?” she asked herself, wondering if she should call back right then or wait till later.
“Call back later,” Mbarak replied, reading her thoughts. He wanted to spend every moment with her uninterrupted.
“Ee, I will,” Jawhara affirmed, stuffing her mobile back into her pocket. And with that, Mbarak and Jawhara sat and talked for a little over an hour, the love so thick in the air between them that anyone walking past could reach out and touch it. He discussed his favorite topic of all, cars, and though Jawhara usually couldn’t care less for that subject, she latched onto every word Mbarak spoke as if it were a religious sermon that would save her from hellfire. She, in return, told him about the crazy experiences she’d had while renting cars for fun. “Guys ma yin3a6oon wayh when they rent cars! T5ayal, 7aram; ra3i ilma7al ga3d yigool inna il-Lamborghini bes im2ajreenha once oo latshoof shimsaween feeha!”
“Oh yeah?” Mbarak chuckled, “Shimsaween feeha?”
“Il-mukayef is missing a slot, the leather seats are stained with God-knows-what, the shift dayman yi3alleg, the brake pads were so worn out, oo it was filthy! Allah yi3een illi yi2ajerha 3ugub those guys!” Jawhara counted the faults off her fingers, and with every problem she named, Mbarak nodded his head with such adoration – it was the most attractive thing ever seeing a girl as beautiful and feminine as Jawhara talk about cars.
The time passed all too quickly for their liking, but it was time for Jawhara to get home – as much as Mbarak loved to spend time with her, it would be selfish of him to keep her out at night. Even though it was only 9.30 PM, Mbarak felt more at ease knowing Jawhara wasn’t out in the streets at 10 PM or later. ‘All the freaks come out at night; Allah yahdeehum bas oo ye7fi’6 Jawharti,’ he thought to himself.
“Asayrich lai ilbeit?” he asked chivalrously, knowing that he would follow her home even if she declined.
“Illi yiray7ik, 7abeebi,” she smiled as his Silverado pulled up into the dark parking lot next to her SUV.
“5ala9 3ayal, rikbay sayartich wana al7egich lai ilbeit. Itha a7ad yi2atheech digeeli,” he smiled.
“Inshallah,” Jawhara nodded, and he picked up her hand and kissed it. After a long heartfelt embrace, Jawhara let herself out of Mbarak’s car and climbed into her own, thinking about the missed call she’d received earlier.

Jawhara pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering hesitantly over the ‘Send’ button – she was so used to ignoring unknown numbers, but something in her heart told her that she should call this number back. Without giving herself another moment to falter, she called the number back and waited nervously for someone to pick up and stop the nerve-wracking rings. After a few seconds, a kind womanly voice came through the other end of the line.
“Aloo?” the woman spoke. Judging by her voice, Jawhara could tell she was quite old and a little tired.
“Aloo,” Jawhara repeated, feeling a lot more relaxed that it was a woman speaking and not some random guy making prank calls.
“Mino, Jawhara?” the kind voice asked, hoping she didn’t get the wrong number.
“Ee na3am, mino ma3ay?” Jawhara inquired with a frown; to her knowledge, she didn’t know any older women besides her aunts, and they were all stored in her contact list.
“Wiyach Um A7med,” the woman replied.
A cold chill ran down Jawhara’s spine and she glanced at the car’s air condition to make sure it was turned off. Her eyes shot up at the rear-view mirror to make sure Mbarak was still behind her, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips when she saw his arms flailing this way and that – he was probably arguing with someone on the phone. “Hala walla, 5alti,” Jawhara tried not to be so dry when she spoke, but the mention of A7med or anything to do with him always left a bitter taste in her mouth, as if she’d bitten into a rancid piece of fruit. The taste and feeling were hard to shake, but Jawhara maintained her composure, gripping the steering wheel firmly as she made her way down the 2nd Ring Road.
“Shloonich, 7abeebti?” Um A7med asked, a hint of concern seeping through the cracks of her words. As soon as she’d said ‘7abeebti’, a thunderbolt of nostalgia crashed down onto Jawhara’s heart – she remembered all the times when A7med’s mother would use countless terms of endearment when addressing Jawhara. Jawhara was the daughter she never had.
“7mdilla, 5alti; intay shloonich?” Jawhara was anxious to get the formalities out of the way; it only made her heart ache.
“Ana walla mo zaina,” Um A7med sighed, the distress hanging itself over their conversation.
“Afa; laish 5alti? 3asa ma shar?” Jawhara asked, genuinely worried.
“Ana sam3a inna A7med im2atheech?” Um A7med asked unsurely. Jawhara’s eyes darted to the rear-view mirror every two seconds to make sure Mbarak was behind her. He was; and more than anything, Jawhara wished she could stop her car on the side of the road, climb into his car, and nestle herself in the safety of his arms. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Ee, 5alti; i9ara7a athani,” Jawhara said after taking a giant gulp, frantic to push down the lump that was forming in her throat. It reminded her of her first sushi experience – everything she smelled didn’t appeal to her, the crispy seaweed left a harsh aftertaste in her mouth, and when she tried to swallow the chewy cucumber roll, it lodged itself happily in her throat, too far from her stomach and too far to upchuck back into her mouth.
Um A7med had continued to ramble about how disappointed she was in her son and that she thought she’d raised him sufficiently well enough so that he wouldn’t bother “banat ilnas”, but all Jawhara could think of was the former slap and the recent string of angry words A7med had hurled at her.
“Bes 7abait agoolich inni jiddan asfa 3ala illi 9ar oo aw3edich inna mara7 yitgarablich aw yi2atheech,” Um A7med’s words came pouring back into Jawhara’s ear.
An awkward silence filled the matter between them, and as soon as Jawhara was able to convince herself to swallow her pride, as well as the lump, she quietly said, “7a9al 5air, 5alti.”
The conversation came to a close with another round of formalities and “Don’t forget, you’re still my daughter wana a3izich wayid.”. All Jawhara could do was nod and crumple her lips to one side. Her eyes stayed glued to the rear-view mirror and she let the phone drop lifelessly into her lap, as if it had gathered all of it’s energy for that one phone call that meant to prickle Jawhara’s heart.

A comforting sensation of relief scooped Jawhara into it’s arms as she approached the backstreets that led to her house. Mbarak was still tailing behind her, smiling at her from ear to ear every time she stared at him through the rear-view mirror. Making sure the streets of the fireej were empty, Jawhara parked her car in the large brick driveway of her house and walked over to Mbarak’s window.
“7mdilla 3asalama,” he smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Allah yisalmik; thanks for staying behind me,” Jawhara replied quickly. Her heart was about to beat itself up her ribcage and out of her mouth.
Sensing that her thoughts weren’t clear, Mbarak asked her what was wrong. “Did you call that number back?”
“Ee,” Jawhara nodded, blinking the cold air out of her eyes. “It was Um A7med.”
“Aha,” Mbarak pressed his lips together, apparently dissatisfied with Jawhara’s answer, as if she’d selected who the lucky caller would be.
“7aram; she’s nice,” Jawhara quickly interjected. “She was always nice. She just called to apologize.”
Jawhara’s kind-hearted nature was a wonder to Mbarak – he’s always heard of girls being sweet and naïve and going the extra mile for people they love, but this girl seemed to look past every single difference, and she always seemed to find a place for people in her pasture of a heart. “Allah la y’3ayer 3alaich,” Mbarak said softly, beaming at his special girl.
“Shyab?” Jawhara suppressed a chuckle. She peeked left and right just to make sure that no one was out in the street.
“Bes. Allah la y’3ayer 3alaich. Yalla, 7abeebti, dishay da5il. It’s cold oo mabi a7ad yishoofna,” Mbarak insisted, bending his head down to kiss Jawhara’s fingers that were clutching onto the windowpane. “Ana bamur ildiwaniya shway. Itha you need anything, call me.”
“Ok 3umri, thanks,” Jawhara smiled, and watched him drive off and out of the fireej.

Jawhara dragged her feet across the gravel and into the garden of her house. The old wooden garden swing sat lonely amidst the lush green grass, wishing that Jawhara, or anyone, would sit on it and revive the memories that were embedded in the shanks of wood. It then occurred to Jawhara that she hadn’t sat on the garden swing since her father passed away. He was her favorite companion for that event; his long legs rocked the wide swing back and forth while her short legs dangled happily in the brisk spring air.
“Inshallah lama titzawejain, you can take this swing to your new home,” Jawhara’s mother’s voice came from behind her. Jawhara whipped her body around to find her mother standing in the doorway.
She shimmied over to her mother and sank herself between her mother’s loving arms. “Inshallah,” Jawhara whispered.
“Ha, wain kintay?” Jawhara’s mother asked as they walked inside together.
“Just to get coffee with Mbarak,” Jawhara smiled at the mention of his name; she felt so comfortable being able to tell her mom about her whereabouts and not keep any secrets.
“Deeray balich la7ad yishoofkum together, mama; you know how people talk,” Jawhara’s mother advised as they sat down on the comfy couch in their dim living room. A silver tea tray was set on the coffee table with two empty mugs and a giant thermos of chai 7aleeb.
“Don’t worry, Mama. Uhwa wayid 7aree9 3ala halshay,” Jawhara assured her mother.
“Ee zain, ashwa,” Jawhara’s mother smiled and proceeded to fill the mugs with steaming hot milk tea. The dense aroma of cardamom and sweet milk curled into the air, diffusing itself into Jawhara’s nostrils and warming her heart. She stirred the tea lovingly, careful not to disturb the sugar lumps and let them dissolve at their own pace.
“3ala fikra, I got in touch with Um Mbarak,” Jawhara’s mother said with a gleeful grin, anxious to see Jawhara’s reaction.

+++++ 3abadi Johar - 3yoonik (Edhaa2 5aaa9 Jiddan ;**) +++++

25 Random Things

2009-02-08T12:55:00.000-08:00

1. i hate mushrooms. hate hate hate mushrooms. and fage3 :(
2. everytime it rains i look for the rainbow.
3. theres nothing i love more than being in my car - driving, singing, eating, relaxing. my car is the bestest ;*
4. i feel incomplete without my chai 7aleeb breakfast every morning.. i never get sick of it.
5. i can never leave the house without earrings, even though i'm going to the baqala.
6. if i ever lost my iPod i'd probably kill myself. i organized every single song/artist/album with the album covers and it took me AGES. i'd hate to do it all over again..
7. 7 is one of my lucky numbers.
8. if a song reminds me of someone/something that i lost, i have a very hard time listening to it again, which sucks because i miss listening to 3abdu and a lot of 5aleeji songs..
9. i am a potato addict.
10. i had a prophecy about fringe being back this season and no one believed me until they all went shopping ;p teehee!
11. i think Kuwaiti men are the manliest/sexiest/most attractive men bidinya. i don't understand how people are attracted to anyone else.. they just have this thing about them :) ya 7ilookum shababna!
12. i make up words to describe things and pretty soon everyone i know starts saying them. its soooo funny!
13. i adore elephants and pearls
14. i love to talk! i don't understand people who don't like to talk. but i know when to shut up ;)
15. i wish i was a little taller than i am..
16. when i'm depressed/feeling low, i go out and buy lingerie and/or sexy bras and undies because they make me feel better.. i have the biggest collection of lingerie and one day i am gonna make my husband a very very happy man ;P
17. i love to color and make my own cards
18. i have a very impressive sticker collection hehehe :P
19. my mom thinks i'm a kid because i will never stop buying disney princess stuff.
20. i own crocs and they're loaded with jibbitz, but i'm too embarrassed to wear them.
21. i get soooo annoyed when people smoke around me (especially when i've just done my hair), but strangely enough, i love the smell of cigarettes & cologne and i think its so sexy when guys smoke..
22. i can never play soccer because i'm afraid of the ball.
23. i don't really like coffee, i just drink it because i like driving out to get it :P
24. i do butt exercises every night before i go to sleep :P
25. people always tell me i'm 7anna, bes walla ma a7is ib nafsi :( i don't think i'm 7anna at all. :)

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 31)

2009-02-05T02:19:00.001-08:00

“Reem,” Jawhara repeated as if she was a baby learning to speak for the first time. “As in Reem bint 5alti Huda?”
“Yeah; I got your number from your mom,” Reem spoke uneasily; she knew exactly what Jawhara thought of her, and for once she didn’t blame her. She, too, would be enraged if some girl went out of her way to steal her boyfriend. “I hope that’s not a problem?”
“La, la; not at all!” Jawhara plastered the fakest smile she could conjure on her face and mentally began to scream. “Shloonich?”
“Tamam, walla,” Reem felt a little more at ease when she heard Jawhara’s tone of voice change. “Intay sha5barich?”
‘Good going with the formalities, you Venus Fly Trap,’ Jawhara thought to herself, and continued her brief exchange of small talk with Reem. “Is there anything in particular you needed?”
“Actually,” Reem huffed, trying to calm her nerves; her mother would kill her if she knew what she was about to ask. “I was wondering if you wanted to go shopping tomorrow or something.”
Jawhara was completely taken aback by Reem’s request – this was Reem the archenemy, Reem the nemesis. When did this nice streak decide to come up? Should Jawhara be suspicious or just appreciate Reem’s genuine niceness? Was it even really genuine? Jawhara stammered, collecting her thoughts and trying to come up with a feasible excuse as to why she wouldn’t be able to go shopping with Reem, but her brain failed her, as always. “Umm. What time?”
“Madri,” Reem replied, a hint of excitement in her voice. “Whenever you want!”
“Ah, ok,” Jawhara fought the urge to sound rude. It was so funny how as soon as she’d accepted Reem’s invitation, a wonderful excuse concerning an interview at the bank popped up in Jawhara’s head – a little too late. “Sounds good.”
“5osh,” Reem said elatedly. It had been a long time since she’d gone shopping, and even longer since she’d been shopping with a friend. Sure it was too soon to call Jawhara a real friend, but any female company that didn’t include her mother made her feel hopeful. After she’d hung up the phone from Jawhara, Reem glanced at herself in the mirror. Looking herself over more than once, she decided that she deserved to have a friend and stop trying to live up to her mother’s expectations.

Jawhara flipped through an old Marie-Claire magazine, skimming over the bright glossy pages and realizing how much fashion had changed over the past two years – everything that was considered trendy and clean-cut had moved over to make room for bright tights and leggings, avant garde jackets and wacky hair-dos. Jawhara picked up her wavy auburn tresses and twisted them into a bun, securing it by practically knotting her hair. A loose strand of hair freed itself from the tight bun, and in less than five seconds, her immaculate bun had unfurled into the honey-brown mass it had been earlier. Frustrated, she tried to twist her bun again, but her mobile’s alarm went off, signaling that it was time to wake Mbarak up from his slumber. She took a long last glance at a choppy shoulder-length hairdo that one of the magazine models was sporting before she slapped the magazine shut and picked up her mobile.
Jawhara excitedly dialed Mbarak’s number, and the soft mumble that was his voice was music to her ears. “Mmmm,” Mbarak groaned, shifting his knees underneath his ratty blanket.
“Mmmm inta,” Jawhara giggled softly, “Goom 7abeebi, yalla.”
“Kani bagoom,” he almost whispered, amazing Jawhara at the way men found it so easy to fall asleep so fast.
“Yalla, goom oo digli,” Jawhara stated, ready to hang up the phone.
“Laaaaaaa2,” Mbarak’s voice stopped her, “5aleech.”
“Wain, Barook? Goom ‘3assil oo 9a79e7,” Jawhara almost blushed when she thought about how embarrassing it would be for her to stay on the phone while Mbarak did his business. A7med had never kept her on the phone for longer than 15 seconds when he’d just woken up, but here was Mbarak willing to go about his business while Jawhara listened. He sweetly insisted, and Jawhara couldn’t refuse. First, she heard the sound of the babbling tap water and the frequent splish-splash his hands made. Then, the clunking of his toothbrush against the plastic toothbrush holder, followed by the melodic swishing of the toothbrush bristles moving around his pearly dentures.
Jawhara listened quietly, waiting for the little bit of conversation that would distract her from hearing all of the unnecessary noises, and the worst one yet to come. “I hope you’re not planning on using the toilet while I’m still on the phone?”
Mbarak’s sheepish giggle echoed against the pale blue tiles of his bathroom walls. “Too late for that!”
Jawhara gasped. “Mbarak! Hey!”
“Ee shino; shda3wa, sina 3ala ma a’3asel eedi?” he chuckled as he washed his hands, for real this time.
“Shdaraniii,” Jawhara lowered her head, her face turning a million shades of pink. “Inzain, yalla; go eat lunch oo lama t5ale9, call me.”
“La2,” Mbarak tutted, drying his hands quickly and walking back out into his room.
“Laish la2, ba3ad?” Jawhara laughed nervously, “Yalla 3ad, Barook, baby. Bat’3ada wiya ummi.”
Mbarak smiled and blew her a kiss through the phone. “I’m kidding, 7abeebti. T’3aday oo digeeli. 3awafi.”
“Allah yi3afeek, baby. By the way, Reem called me,” Jawhara threw in the last comment quickly as if it would go unnoticed, but Mbarak’s hand towel stopped mid-face, the blood rushing to his ears.
“Oo shtabi, ballah?” Mbarak whipped the hand towel from off his face, ensuring that Jawhara heard the disgust in his voice.
“She.. She wanted to go out tomorrow,” Jawhara managed to say after pursing her lips several times. She began to explain the sequence of Reem’s phone call to Mbarak’s soft unsteady breaths.
“Mmm,” Mbarak mumbled, obviously annoyed. “You really think that something good will come out of this girl?”
“Mo 3an something good.. Bes madri, kserat 5a6ri,” Jawhara crinkled her brow, as if she was looking at a litter of orphaned puppies.
“Hathi wa7da ma takser il5a6er. Maynoona mithil umha,” Mbarak retorted, half-laughing at Jawhara’s naivety. “You’re too nice for your own good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jawhara asked, feeling a little embarrassed.
“Madri, 7abeebti, ya3ni you’re just too nice for your own good,” Mbarak repeated.
The sound of Mbarak saying ‘7abeebti’ eased Jawhara’s tension up; it made her feel like he wasn’t too angry with her.
“Well, 7abeebi,” Jawhara tried polishing his apple, “If you don’t want me to go out with her, then I won’t.”
“Jawharti, ana ma giltlich la ti6le3een wiyaha. Kaifich; if you want to go out with her, go ahead. But don’t be surprised by anything she does. That’s all I’m saying.” Mbarak felt a little uneasy giving Jawhara the green light to go out with that crazy girl, but if it meant being any different than the over-bearing lunatic A7med, he was all for it. “Just let me know shga3d yi9eer wiyach – if you notice anything suspicious, aw itha itsawi 7arakat bay5a.”
“Barook, I’m going out with a girl, not an ape,” Jawhara frowned impatiently, hearing her mother calling for lunch.
“Walla lo 6al3a wiya ape, abrak,” Mbarak laughed, and Jawhara giggled and excused herself for lunch.

Fajer and Wahab caught their breaths after a long fit of hysterical laughter; Wahab had pulled out a giant sea cucumber while explaining their purpose of existence to Fajer, and without any preamble the sea cucumber began wriggling and squirming in Wahab’s palm, spraying Fajer and Wahab with it’s sticky salty fluid.
“Waiiii3!” Fajer had screamed while running away from the sea cucumber’s self-defense attack, and Wahab had devilishly chased her, aiming the liquid attack at Fajer’s bare neck. “Wahab!!!”
Their shrieks echoed through the narrow shoreline with the acoustics of the faint raindrops. Fajer’s legs pounded against the moist sand, trying to escape Wahab’s crazy attack. Wahab had thrown the sea cucumber back into the water a long time ago and was chasing Fajer empty-handedly, but she hadn’t realized this until he gained on her and practically threw herself against her back. “9idtich!”
Fajer’s blood-curling scream almost left Wahab deaf in his left ear, and he repeatedly tried to inform her that he’d thrown it away. Her screams and his pleas turned into an uproar of laughter, and they laughed until their stomachs ached, until Fajer couldn’t hold herself upright, and until tiny tears sat in the happy slits that were Wahab’s eyes.
“You are gonna pay!” Fajer shook a limp finger at Wahab, stifling her breath and propping one arm against his shoulder for support.
“Pay, ha?” Wahab menaced, and with one giant swoop, he scooped Fajer into his arms and carried her a-la-Honeymooners. A surprised cry escaped her lips and Wahab gently shushed her. He nuzzled her forehead and gave her wet brow a kiss; a kiss that was a couple of seconds longer than it should’ve been. He tasted the sweet saltiness that had nestled on her forehead and inhaled the fresh scent of shampoo that lingered in her hair. Fajer let herself down from Wahab’s arms and they stood in front of the wide ocean, their bodies grazing one another like willow branches in a light breeze.
“Fajoorti,” Wahab said softly, his warm breath numbing the skin between her eyebrows.
“Hala 7abeebi,” Fajer replied, getting chills up and down her spine. It was then she realized that it was the first time she’d called Wahab ‘7abeebi’.
“Ya 7ilo hal kilma minnich,” Wahab smiled and tucked a wavy tendril of hair behind Fajer’s ear. His lips were then perilously close to hers, and Fajer closed her eyes in pure bliss, capturing every moment with the rest of her awakened senses.
“Fajoora,” he repeated, relishing the sound of her name when it was soft-spoken against the distant crashing of the tide.
“Hala Wahabi,” she smiled, the wind pushing her body a little too close against his.
“You’re exactly what I need,” Wahab said, and without any awkward introductions or movements, he did what he’d meant to do earlier while they were eating their chicken nuggets and French fries; what he’d meant to do while he was checking on the healing process of her mosquito-bitten eyelid.
He kissed her lips ardently and with such fervor that Fajer gasped mid-kiss, her thoughts slowly processing what was happening. His moist lips caressed Fajer’s unsuspecting lips, and when she finally got over the initial shock of having her first kiss in a long time, Fajer kissed back. It seemed like forever, and though there was no tongue action involved, the tingles that stretched from Fajer’s spinal cord to the end of every nerve in her body made her knees buckle so much that she had to hold onto the crook of Wahab’s neck to keep her steady.
Wahab’s lips broke free of Fajer’s lips, and he immediately inched closer to kiss the smooth point of her nose, her closed eyelid, her forehead, and finally the crown of her head. “7abeebti,” he sighed breathlessly.
Fajer threw herself into his arms and they stood locked in their passionate embrace, like a soldier who had just come home from war and his yearning wife. The scent of Wahab’s cologne mixed with the acrid salty air became Fajer’s biggest comfort, letting her forget about all the painful memories without her parents, all of the unpleasant moments she’d experience with 6alal, and all sense of time and being. She practically melted in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, Wahab experienced the soothing comfort of knowing that someone cared for him. With his arms still wrapped around Fajer, he spoke softly into her ear, “I love these motherly hugs of yours.”
Fajer gently pulled back and looked him in the eye, furrowing her brow. “Do you kiss your mother this way, too?”
Wahab laughed out loud and pulled her into his chest tighter than before. “Walla innich 7abeebti!”
They walked back to where Wahab’s Lexus jeep flaunted itself on the sandbar for everyone to see, and quickly climbed in and made their way back to the city. By the time it was 5.30 PM, Fajer was back in her car, frantically dialing Jawhara’s number, eager to tell her about every single detail of every event that had happened in the past 5 hours.

“Intay wainich??” Jawhara cried, excited to hear her friend’s familiar voice. As crazy as it seemed, Jawhara had missed Fajer even though she was gone for a few hours – she wasn’t used to being away from her.
“Oh my God, Jawhara. I have SO much to tell you, it’s not even funny,” Fajer began, turning her steering wheel carefully and guiding her car around the small Surra roundabout.
“I have so much to tell YOU!” Jawhara exclaimed, bouncing up and down in her seat on the couch.
“Wainich?” They both asked at the exact same time with the same tone of voice. The girls giggled at their telepathic friendship until Jawhara piped up, “Ta3alay 3indi.”
“No, you ta3alay 3indi; I need to shower!” Fajer chuckled, remembering the horrible sea cucumber attack.
“Wee, wee, wee! Intaw shimsaween!?” Jawhara laughed, swatting Joori’s hand away from the remote control. Dora the Explorer was playing on DVD and Joori had made it a point for Jawhara to learn the little bits of Spanish vocabulary with her, but as soon as Jawhara saw Fajer calling her, she’d muted and paused the television set.
“I’ll tell you everything bes ta3alay!” Fajer pleaded, turning into Qur6uba’s long winding streets.
“Rabena yostor!” Jawhara said as Fajer had earlier that day, wringing her hands for the full effect. “5al t5ale9ni Dora the Explorer wayeelich 3ala6ool.”
“Lat6awleen,” Fajer said, the anticipation in her voice. When they hung up, Fajer sank her back into the soft leather seats of her BMW and exhaled loudly, musing over the events of her special afternoon. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting a hint of Wahab and quietly wishing she didn’t have to shower the remnants of her date away.

Fajer stood under the relaxing hot shower and let the water pound against her hair, face, and body. The steam swept against her chest and shoulders, picking up the fumes of Wahab’s cologne and magnifying it with every swift billow. Fajer inhaled the last of his cologne, wishing she could capture it in her nose and lungs forever, so that whenever she wanted to smell him, all she had to do was exhale a little. At her feet, small clusters of sand had trickled down from her smooth legs, and with her toes, Fajer touched the wet grains of sand lovingly before the water washed them down the drain. When all traces of her date had disappeared, Fajer disappointedly scrubbed her limbs and her torso, and lathered her hair with her favorite shampoo, Garnier Fructis.
A knock on the bathroom door snapped Fajer back to reality, and Jawhara’s muffled voice came through the wooden door, “Ma 9arat shower!”
“Almost done, babe!” Fajer called back, quickly rinsing off the mound of bubbles nestling in her hair. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped her giant pink robe around her body and twisted her hair into a towel. As soon as she walked into her room and saw Jawhara, Fajer rushed over and gave her a huge hug.

“Someone’s happy,” Jawhara grinned, nodding her head at Fajer.
Fajer grabbed a couple of cotton buds from her vanity table and began swabbing her ears. “Jooj, it was AMAZING,” Fajer began, and told her about every single detail of her date with Wahab, start to almost-finish. Jawhara ooh-ed and aww-ed with every event, and was elated to see the joy that had consumed her best friend once again. “Inzain bagoolich shay bes la tiz3eleen,” Fajer said, getting up to grab her comb from her vanity table.
“Goolay,” Jawhara drawled with a raised eyebrow, expecting the worst.
“We kissed. Well, he kissed me first, actually, but we kissed. It wasn’t the whole French kiss thing; it was a lip-to-lip kiss, but it was long and it was soft, and it was PERFECT. Jawhara, if every girl in this country experienced a kiss like this, I think the world would be a better place.”
Jawhara’s jaw dropped at Fajer’s babbling, partly because she’s never seen Fajer speak this fast or with this much thrill. She wasn’t mad at all; her shoulders slouched because of the fuzzy feeling that was settling in her stomach. Finally, love was in the air for both of them.
“I’m not mad,” Jawhara stood up and gave Fajer a long hug. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because it felt like it was too soon. But I know if I’d stopped him or moved away, I would probably never get the chance to kiss him on the seashore under the rain again. I swear, Jojo, it was like something out of ‘The Notebook’ or a movie equally as good,” Fajer smiled to herself and bit her lower lip.
“Well, I’m happy for you. As long as you’re comfortable and happy with the way your relationship is going, then I’m behind you every step of the way. You just have to keep in mind that Wahab and 6alal are two different people. Don’t apply what you went through with 6alal to what you’re going through with Wahab. It’s a fresh start,” Jawhara smiled.
“Walla a7ibich,” Fajer grinned, reaching out for another hug. “Inzain, tell me; intay sh3indich?”
“Well,” Jawhara began. She sat on Fajer’s bed as Fajer pranced around the room in a tank top and short shorts, looking for her lotions and face creams and body spray. “I got a call today. You’ll never guess from who.”
“Who?” Fajer asked, rubbing her lotion-filled hands up and down her legs.
“Reem,” Jawhara said abruptly, and Fajer’s hands stopped mid-leg.
“O-kaaay,” Fajer smirked, peering up through her wet strands of hair, “Shtabi hathi?”
“Well,” Jawhara nervously ran her tongue along her lower set of teeth and tried to smile. “We’re going shopping with her tomorrow. Supposedly. I don’t know. Pray that she forgets?” Jawhara rambled.
Fajer snapped the lid of her bottled lotion shut, the sound vibrating in the silence that filled the room. “Are you insane??”
“Fajoor, I didn’t know what to say! She got my number from my mom, te5ayelay! And she called me oo she was being all nice and stuff! Madri, ya3ni I felt bad! I tried to think of several excuses bes none of them seemed sufficient enough. Shasawi? I’m sorry,” Jawhara pouted, hoping that her friend would reconsider her stance.
“And what does Mr. Mbarak have to say about this?” Fajer asked with a hand on her hip, her weight shifted on one leg.
“He thought I was crazy, too. But he kinda gave in towards the end,” Jawhara chewed on her lower lip, painstakingly waiting for a positive reaction from Fajer.
Fajer stared at Jawhara for what seemed like forever, until she broke her stare with a huff. “Fine. But only because I owe you and I love you.”
“Way,” Jawhara sighed, “Ashwa. I thought you were gonna kill me.”
“I AM gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill you if this shopping expedition turns out to be a total flop,” Fajer warned, wagging her hair comb at Jawhara.
“We’ll make the best of it. And besides, il-soog killa sales. At least there’s an up side to it,” Jawhara tried to console Fajer.
“Killa 5alajeen,” Fajer laughed, tossing her hair back and giving it several more brushes.
“Speaking of 5alajeen,” Jawhara began, “I’m supposed to see Mbarak in an hour, for an hour. Look at what I’m wearing. Mara7 yamdeeni abadel.”
“You look golden,” Fajer nodded in appreciation at Jawhara’s selection of clothing. Jawhara was sporting a peachy pink Juicy Couture training set with the golden crown embellishments, tucked into her trusty brown Uggs, and giant pearl studs. Her hair, usually straight and let down, crowned her head with a mass of honey brown waves.
“But I wore training the last time he saw me,” Jawhara frowned.
“Weren’t you the one who said ‘Illi yabeenna, yabeenna be5yasna’?” Fajer smiled.
“True..,” Jawhara smiled. “Speak of the devil; he’s calling.” She picked up her ringing mobile and answered, getting the directions of where they’ll be meeting from Mbarak.
After she hung up, she told Fajer that they were set to meet at Caribou Coffee in the Free Zone in 30 minutes.
“Isn’t he a little early?” Fajer asked, a little upset that she and Jawhara’s meeting time had been cut short.
“Yam3awda, early wala inna yit2a5ar 3alay,” Jawhara raised her eyebrows and picked up her oversized Contromedia bag. “Tabeen shay?”
“Salamtich, babe,” Fajer smiled as she kissed her friend on the cheek. “Let me know what goes on.”
“Akeed – awal ib awal!” Jawhara smiled and waved to her friend before she raced down the winding stairs and out the door.

Alive & Well

2009-01-28T12:51:00.000-08:00

Sorry guys, I know you're expecting a YotL post, but I had to clear my head. This post is a *very* special dedication to my uncle, Bu A7mad, who'd won a tough fight with cancer. It is a joy to have you back home, healthy and safe, and you make my heart swell with pride. Allah yisalmik oo ya7meek min kil shar inshallah. We all love you :*

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Her rich boisterous laughter filled the air of our dim dining room, and I watched from the doorway as her grandeur captivated every single guest sitting at the table. The flickering candlelight skittered from stone to stone of her giant crystal peacock brooch – the one I had brought her for Christmas. Today, it is her birthday; my big, beautiful Etta is turning 48.
Holding a bottle of Pinot Grigio in my brown leathery hands, I took in the sight of her radiant mahogany skin, with her cheeks so round and full of joy, and her almond shaped eyes that twinkled, outshining the glow of the candles. My Etta is turning 48, but she doesn’t look a day over 29. She says it’s because of the cocoa butter she applies so delicately onto her face every night before we go to sleep, but I say it’s because of the laughter that never ceases to escape her raspberry-stained lips.
I love the way her bosom heaved up and down with every sweet breath she took. I love the way she daintily dabbed at the moisture that accumulated on her neck every Sunday at church, when the churchgoers would heat up the pews with every “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!”. I love the way she hovered over pots and pans everyday at noon; I’d find her sashaying in the kitchen as if it were a model’s catwalk, slicing the bright orange carrots and stirring the thick brown gravy. Even today, her birthday, she’d managed to wake up at 7 AM without hitting the snooze button on our rickety alarm clock. I’d watched from bed, pretending to be asleep as she slipped into her favorite maroon dress; the one with the satin ribbon at the hem. She applied her make-up ever so carefully, and I fought the urge to spring up from bed and yell at her to stop – she didn’t need all that chemically infested make-up; she was beautiful just the way the Lord had created her. She spoke out loud, even though she knew I probably wouldn’t have heard her – she told me she was going to the beauty salon. Again, I had to stop myself from bolting upright and telling her not to go – she didn’t need all of those hot irons and chemical relaxers; I loved every kink in her hair just the way it was.
By the time I’d come back from the liquor store with the bottles of wine for her birthday dinner, I saw that she’d beat me to the cooking. There she was again, craning her neck over the hissing pots and pans, careful not to let the piping hot steam ruin her immaculate hairdo. I’d noticed that her nails were also done; they were pressed with blood red acrylics that I’d normally detest, but today, they looked like candy attached to her fingers. I’d kissed her hands and the nape of her neck, and she flirtatiously shooed me away, telling me that I’d have my share later on tonight.
Etta was, indeed, a one woman show. When our guests had arrived, the dining room lights were dimmed to perfection, making even the ugliest beast look like a fawn. The flame of the long ivory candles swayed from side to side along with the Jazz classics that were playing from our makeshift surround sound system. The table was set with our best china and Etta’s prized silverware. From the scent that was wafting from every steaming plate, I had known that Etta had once again outdone herself; Maple-roasted chicken with Creole spices, a seafood and sausage Jambalaya that would put the French Quarters to shame, and an endless array of sides including my favorite, buttered baby peas. Plates were laden with roasted new potatoes, sweet corn on the cob, succulent butter biscuits, and mouthwatering coleslaw. No, Jane Fonda was not a guest at this dinner, but Etta always told me that if the food doesn’t warm your heart, then it is not food at all.
Marion held up her fluted champagne glass to toast Etta’s 48 years of life, and it was then I realized that I had been standing in the doorway for too long. I quickly walked past the countless heads of glossy curls, tight braids, and nappy cuts until I reached the empty chair that was right beside my Etta’s.
I sat down and raised my glass as well, looking at my shining star with all the endearment my eyes could muster. Forty-eight years of life, my dear Etta, and we’ve only been married for two. Forty-eight years of life, and not a worry in the world has defaced your joyous demeanor. Forty-eight years of life, and you’re still as graceful as a hummingbird flittering in the warm sunshine of the South. You make life seem so effortless; not a single gray hair has sprouted in your lovely mass of curls. Never once have you complained about the Southern heat, and never once have you complained about the fatigue you’d felt after you’d collapsed in the living room.
Today is your birthday, my dear Etta, and tomorrow is your first chemotherapy session. I know you are not afraid to lose all of that beautiful hair, and I know you’re not afraid of losing weight and having your life drained of color and joy. In fact, your battle with life will probably be harder for me than it will be for you, just because I know that’s the way you are.
Today, you are enjoying your birthday to it’s fullest degree, because in your heart of hearts you are aware that this may be your last. Your friends don’t know about your sickness, because you don’t want anyone to worry – I’m lucky you didn’t keep something so serious from me as well. But that’s the way you are, my dear Etta. You’ve never stopped living, never stopped listening, and never stopped loving.
Today, I am by your side, holding your hand and feeding you a spoonful of your heavenly spicy creations. Tomorrow, I’ll be by your side, holding your hand and nourishing you with my love and energy. But always remember that even though I’m gone, the Lord is by our side no matter where we are.
I smile at you, and though I know that deep inside you are petrified, you still smile back. This is how I know that you will overcome. Happy birthday, my dearest Etta. May you live a thousand lives for the next hundred years to come.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 30)

2009-01-21T09:24:00.000-08:00

Congratulations Mr. President and the rest of the Obama family, and of course Mr. Biden and his family. You all are truly a joy, and I wish you all the best. Oh-bama Oh-nine! :) Make it happen!
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The purr of the engine became softer as Wahab slowed down along the curvy roads. Fajer had no clear idea of where they were; she had been reclined in her seat for as long as she could remember, and all she could see where the giant raindrops accumulating on the pristine windshield. She’d counted them as they fell, but began to lose count when more than one fell at a time. Wahab drove steadily, still rocking his plastic eye patch, and babbled to Fajer about the never-ending details of his fun-filled childhood.
“We9alna,” Wahab said with a big sigh, smiling broadly at the blue-grey sky.
“Wain?” Fajer asked as she pushed her self up in her seat, but before Wahab could reply, the familiar scent of the pungent sea filled her nostrils.
“Back to where we started,” Wahab replied, parking the jeep at the foot of the shore.
Fajer peered out of the window, rather amused at the buccaneer theme that was being carried throughout this date of theirs. “Are you even allowed to park on the shore bes chithee?”
“Min gal la2?” Wahab asked rhetorically. “Yalla nizlay.”
“It’s raining, Wahaboo! I’m gonna get filthy!” Fajer cried, her hand unsurely grabbing the door handle.
“Laish baitkum ma fee shower?” Wahab laughed as he got out of the car. He made his way around the car and flung the passenger door open dramatically. “After you,” he gestured with a smile.
Unable to think of a slick comeback to shut down Wahab’s shower remark, she decided to give in, and she slipped her hand into his as she hopped out of the Lexus jeep. Her Uggs landed atop the wet sand, and she carefully trudged along Wahab’s side in hopes that she wouldn’t get her favorite boots dirty. A gust of wind swirled around them, but for the first time that winter, it felt pleasant and refreshing against their skin. The only thing that irked Fajer was the raindrops that stingingly slapped against her forehead and left dark brown dots and dashes on her sweater dress. “Where are we going?”
“Al7een tshoofeen,” Wahab squeezed her hand gently. They continued walking for a few more minutes, chattering about the unique design styles of every chalet they passed. After a seemingly long walk, they stopped in front of Mbarak’s chalet. “We’re here.”
Confused, Fajer looked at Wahab with questioning eyes, wondering why they were at Mbarak’s chalet. As if he read her mind, Wahab told her they’d be having a light lunch together.

“Are you cooking?” Fajer inquired, excited at the thought of a man in the kitchen.
“Ha! You wish,” Wahab laughed, leaving Fajer disappointed, “I can’t cook to save my life.”
“Ahaaa,” Fajer sang, “3ayal mino bye6ba5?” She took a seat on the plastic white deck chair, even though it was dirty with crusty muddy spots.
“The 7ares already has lunch prepared,” Wahab elucidated with a shy smile, “I hope you like chicken nuggets.”
“Allaaaaaah!” Fajer cried as Wahab sat next to her, “Nothing like home-style chicken nuggets. I feel like I’m four years old again.”
“I know, 9a7? 7ita ana,” Wahab grinned as he placed his hand into hers, “I know it sounds cheesy, bes I always feel like a baby when I’m with you.”
“Why is that?” Fajer asked, trying not to laugh at his lame remark.
“Madri,” he sighed as he stared out at the shallow shore. The tide was washing out, and tiny rushing waves came rolling to the shore. In the near distance, Wahab could see that the small sandy islands had already formed in front of most of the chalets. A chill made its way down his spine as he took a deep breath, taking in the gloomy weather and sad sea into his large doe-like eyes. “You’re the only person I can be myself around.”
“Aww,” Fajer cooed, resting her head against his burly shoulder. She could feel the hard plastic of her eye-patch uncomfortably digging into the skin around her eye. “You can always be you with me.”
Wahab chuckled, “Walla innich silly.”
“Hey!” Fajer lightly smacked his arm, “Itha ana silly, inta ubo ilsilly.”
“Ya 7ilwich,” Wahab smiled as he tipped his head to the side, resting it against the crown of Fajer’s head. He pulled out his mobile and dialed the 7ares’s number, letting him know that they were on the deck and ready for lunch. Once given the green light, Wahab excused himself and went inside to get the lunch. He came out shortly after, carrying a tray laden with two heaping platefuls of golden chicken nuggets and French fries, a squeezable bottle of ketchup, and two glass bottles of Diet Coke.
“Yummm,” Fajer beamed as Wahab set the plate before her. He reached for the squeeze bottle of ketchup and proceeded to draw a heart and a smiley face on the edge of Fajer’s plate.
“Bil3afya,” he smiled as the ketchup sputtered onto his plate.
“Yi3afeek,” Fajer replied, and shamelessly tucked into her meal. The chicken nugget was piping hot and tender, just the way she liked them. The comforting taste of fried home-style nuggets danced on her tongue, and the French fries were no exception. Fajer couldn’t live without potatoes, and nothing made her stomach roll over in delight than a plateful of home-made thick cut fries; “Bu6a6 Mary”, as she called it. “You have no idea what this reminds me of.”
“Tell me,” Wahab wrinkled his nose in between bites, scooping the ketchup onto the chicken nugget wedge.
“Do you remember ayam gabil when we’d eat something like this for dinner? Watching TV, or watching a movie?” Wahab nodded with a nostalgic smile creeping across his lips. “Kint atraba3 3al arth oo yi7i6oon il9eeniya jidami and this is exactly what I’d eat almost every night.”
“Me too!” Wahab exclaimed, “Bes add three brothers and a fight over the ketchup.” Fajer burst out laughing, almost choking on the icy fizz of her drink. “I’m serious!” Wahab continued, taking a long swig of his Diet Coke. “But then, everything changed. One by one kberaw oo tezawejaw oo yabaw 3yal, and soon enough I was the only one left eating chips and nuggets. But now it doesn’t really matter because I’m eating them with you.”
“Wahaaaaab!” Fajer smiled half-heartedly, “I’ll be here for as long as God says so.” The way he’d spoken so quickly about how his brothers left the bird nest and left him behind made Fajer want to hug him so badly. She felt his pain for she was an only child herself, but she decided she’d had it easy because she never had to deal with anyone leaving her to grow up alone; she was all by herself. Fajer picked up a fat French fry and dragged it along the edges of her ketchup heart, and when it was satisfactorily doused in ketchup, she brought it to Wahab’s lips and fed it to him. “Do you ever think about getting married?”
“I’d love to,” Wahab sighed listlessly, “Bes lazim a5ale9 dirasti – there’s no way in hell I can think about getting married without graduating.”
“Oh,” Fajer’s eyes were downcast. Her only reason for her strong wish to get married was the fact that she’d have someone, a male, there for her always. Though the thought of not being with Jawhara all day everyday put her off, there was nothing she wanted more than to wake up every morning to the man of her dreams and have her own family. Often, Fajer promised herself that she’d never leave her child to be an only child. Just fantasizing about the years ahead made her heart heavy with joy.
“Do you?” Wahab interrupted the massive grey cloud of Fajer’s thoughts.
“Do I what?” Fajer turned to look at him. His deep brown eyes twinkled, as if they were talking to her all on their own.
“Want to get married,” Wahab finished his question.
“I don’t know,” Fajer lied, “I’ll have to think about it.” Fajer felt like if she told Wahab about her dreams of marriage, she’d scare him away like she did her ex. ‘Mafgoorat zawaj’, he’d called her, even though Fajer was never incessant about the subject. 6alal just had his own way of seeing things; he made Fajer feel like everything she did for him was just another stepping stone to the kosha.
“Oh,” Wahab took a deep breath and crunched on his last French fry. “Well, think about it. I don’t think marriage is all that bad.”
“That’s a first,” Fajer raised an eyebrow, “Kuwaiti guys totally repel marriage.”
“I’m not your average Kuwaiti guy,” Wahab retorted with a wicked grin.
“I noticed,” Fajer pointed to his eye-patch. She flipped hers up and pulled out her compact mirror from her purse to check on the healing progress of her eye. “Not bad, huh?”
Wahab inched closed and examined her eye. “Not bad at all,” and with a swift motion that Fajer had no chance to dodge, he planted a long soft kiss on her cheek, dangerously close to her mouth. Fajer’s insides liquefied and she closed her eyes in utter appreciation, letting her pores soak in the moist sensation of Wahab’s lips against her skin.
“3indi so2al,” Fajer asked quietly as soon as Wahab’s lips broke free from her cheek.
“Si2lay,” Wahab sighed with the most loving look in his eyes. He ran his fingers along Fajer’s hair and stared intently at her unblemished face, waiting for her to speak again.
“Laish sefa6na a5er ildinya dam inni bniyi chalet Mbarak?”
Wahab boyishly shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I like walking with you.”
After they’d cleared off the table, Wahab and Fajer trudged in the clumpy sand, walking hand in hand and collecting the beautiful seashells and sand dollars that the tide had foolishly left behind.

Jawhara watched quietly as the raindrops splotched against her windowpane. It had been a long boring afternoon for her; Mbarak was still asleep and Fajer hadn’t texted all day, so she was basically sitting alone at home, watching Jeopardy on MBC 4. “Carrie & Mr. Big took a romantic carriage ride in Central Park in the "I Heart NY" episode of this show,” Alex Trebek read the clue off the giant blue screen.
“What is Sex and the City!” Jawhara called out, clapping to herself when she’d gotten the correct answer. Her phone rang; it was Mbarak. Beaming, she picked up the phone and greeted him.
“Hala bil’3alya,” Mbarak growled. Jawhara could hear his throat squeaking as he stretched his arm high above his head.
“Hala feek, 7abeebi. 9a7 ilnoom,” Jawhara replied as she muted the television set.
“9a7 ibdenich, 7ayati. Wainich?” Mbarak spoke, his voice muzzy with sleep.
“Waini ba3ad; at home,” Jawhara sighed, “Baby, I’m so bored!”
“Killina bored, mamati,” Mbarak laughed and tucked his arm behind his head, sinking back into his warm pillow. “Laish, wain rifeejtich?”
“Rifeejti, Allah yisalmik, bag’ha rifeejik,” Jawhara pouted playfully, as if Mbarak could see her.
A loud bubbly laugh escaped his lips. “Intay mal bog, walla. Mal a56efich.”
“Huh?” Jawhara stiffened up at what she had heard, wanting to hear it again to clarify. “What did you say?”
“Agool mal a56efich,” Mbarak repeated.
“Oh! Ta56efni!” Jawhara laughed nervously. “7alalik, yuba, e56efni; erbe6ni oo 7e6ni ibdabbitik oo take me wherever you want.”
“What did you think I said?” Mbarak smiled devilishly, ignoring Jawhara’s comment. He knew the answer very well but wanted to hear it from Jawhara.
“Nothing,” she lied, feeling her face get extremely hot. “The connection was just a little fuzzy.”
“Ah ok,” Mbarak chuckled knowingly. “Inzain sh3indich ba3ad shway?”
“Ma 3indi shay ilyoom,” Jawhara replied almost immediately, desperately wanting to change the subject. “I’m free, free, free.”
“Inzain ya free, abi ashoofich illaila,” Mbarak said huskily.
Butterflies filled Jawhara’s stomach and she excitedly accepted. “Wain binroo7?”
“Madri,” Mbarak smiled, “Wherever the wind blows.”
“Tara mu6ar barra,” Jawhara warned, as if Mbarak had no idea.
“Ee, adri; ga3d asma3a,” Mbarak closed his eyes blissfully and imagined standing underneath the pouring rain with Jawhara.
“Ee, fa ya3ni no outdoor activities,” Jawhara wiggled her eyebrows and her lips pressed to form a smile.
“5air inshalla,” Mbarak put aside her request and began planning their evening in his head.
“Min 9ijji; mabi astamreth!” Jawhara giggled.
”Inzain, inzain,” Mbarak laughed, turning onto his side. His warm blanket enveloped his bare shoulders and he relished the comfort that only his bed brings. His blanket, though a few years old and tattered in some places, was the warmest blanket he’d ever owned, and though his mother nagged him relentlessly to go out and shop for a new one, he never did in fear of missing the cozy warmth of this blanket.
“Yalla, goom,” Jawhara ordered playfully, “5yas noom.”
“Intay 5yas noom!” Mbarak laughed. “3indi so2al.”
“Tefa’6al,” Jawhara smiled, tucking her feet under her thick duvet.
“Dam fa’6lich,” he replied politely, and Jawhara positively beamed at his chivalry. “Lo gimtay min ilnoom oo ligaiteeni ibwayhich, shitsaween?”
“Hmmmm,” Jawhara murmured, thinking of a decent response. “Alimik waboosik 3ala rasik.”
“Tbooseeni with your morning breath?” Mbarak chuckled loudly.
“Waaaaiii3, Mbarak,” Jawhara frowned, “You just killed it, zaiiin?”
“At’3ashmar, 7abeebti,” Mbarak smiled, breathing loudly into the phone. “Shakli banam for another hour or so. Tga3deeni?”
“7abeebi, it’s almost 2 PM. Goom; 7aram ana broo7i,” Jawhara whined, curling and uncurling her pedicured toes.
“Sa3a; please, Joojti,” Mbarak pleaded, already closing his eyes, “Tga3deeni wala la2?”
“Aga3dik,” Jawhara finally gave in, feeling a ting of disappointment at the thought of spending another hour alone.
“Mashkooooora,” Mbarak thanked her and blew her a quick kiss.
“Noom il3awafi,” Jawhara chimed before saying their goodbyes and hanging up. She quickly set her mobile alarm for 3 PM, just in case she forgot.
Jawhara watched the Final Jeopardy clue take up the whole screen as she read aloud the words, un-muting the TV. The category was Musical Theater, and Jawhara was in luck because there’s nothing more she loved than watching musicals. “It opens with a widow & her son arriving by boat from Singapore to accept a job that pays 20 pounds a month.”
“THE KING AND I!” Jawhara shouted, and began belting out “Getting To Know You”, her favorite song from the show.
“Sh’hal ez3aj??” Jawhara could hear her mother’s muffled voice calling from down the hall.
“Sorry, Mama!” she called back, trying to calm her excited nerves.
Just as Alex Trebek was about to reveal the final answers, Jawhara’s phone rang. A strange number flashed on the screen, and Jawhara contemplated answering it in fear of it being A7med. She never answered strange numbers, but for some reason, she went ahead and did. A familiar girl’s voice filled the other end of the line.
“Mino ma3ay?” Jawhara inquired, trying to figure out who’s voice it was.
“Ma 3erafteeni?” the girl asked nervously, feeling a bit of regret for making the phone call in the first place.
“La walla, e5ti, asfa,” Jawhara bunched her lips together, waiting for an indication.
“Wiyach Reem,” she said, taking a deep breath.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 29)

2009-01-11T12:40:00.000-08:00

Hey all.. Sorry for the posting delay bes I’ve had a REEEALLLLY long week. My sister was visiting and I haven’t seen her in months, so I was with her. Also I was helping out a few friends with their finals and tutoring! So please forgive me ;* Hope you had a more relaxing week than I did! I tried to make this post extra long.. Hehehe a7ibkum!
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Fajer woke up startled to the sound of her phone ringing loudly in her ear. She could’ve sworn she’d left it on her dresser table before she went to sleep; her father was always warning her about the dangers of leaving her phone on her bed while she was asleep. The soft ringtone of M7amed 3abdu singing along to his 3ood wafted into her ears: "Da3ani Il-Shooooog Yal-'3ali Wana Min Il-Wajd Labaiiitah! Magdar 3ala Il-Bu3d.. 3ezzah Li! Ya 3ezzaaaah Li! Galbi Te3athab Oo 3annaitah, Da3ani Il-Shooooog!"
“Hala Wahabi,” she mumbled into the phone.
“9ba7 il5air, Joora,” Wahab smiled as he started the engine of his car. “Goomay.”
“9ba7 inoor,” Fajer replied, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Laish, shfeek?”
“Ma feeni shay; raye7 iljam3a now emti7ani ilyoom,” Wahab said nervously, fumbling with the gear. He glanced to his right to make sure that all of his papers and pens were with him before reversing out onto the streets of 3dailiya.
“Oh 9aaa7!” Fajer sat up in her bed, hugging her sheets around her chest. A cold draft was coming in from somewhere and it had been tickling her all night, but it was even worse in the morning after she’d been warmed from head to toe. “Good luck, sweety,” she smiled, turning on her bedside lamp. The sudden brightness of the lamp blinded Fajer, and she squinted, feeling the sleep make it’s way back into her eyes.
“Thanks, Fajoorti,” Wahab grinned. “Adiglich ana awal ma a5ale9. OK? Be ready at 12.”
“Ready for what?” Fajer inquired, curious to know what Wahab had up his sleeve.
“Malich shi’3il, be ready oo 5ala9,” Wahab smiled slyly as he made his way through the dense morning traffic.
“Inzain shloon iljaw barra?” she asked, so she’d know what to wear for whatever it is they were going to do.
“Bard. Libsay 3adil,” he warned, looking at the cold fog accumulate on his windshield.
“Zain,” she nodded, staring at her closet as if she had X-ray eyesight and trying to envision what her outfit would look like. As soon as they hung up, Fajer remembered Jawhara. She held down the number 3 on her keypad and watched as her phone automatically speed-dialed Jawhara’s number. “Jojo,” she spoke into the phone.
“Mmm,” Jawhara rolled over and buried her face into her satiny pillow.
“Sh9ar 3alaich?” Fajer asked, remember how hard her friend was crying the night before.
Jawhara’s eyes fluttered open, letting her mind absorb and consume the events of last night, even though they felt blurry to her. “Madri,” Jawhara replied honestly, “Mbarak dag oo I told him about what happened, and then he closed the phone in my face and we spoke again after an hour oo he told me he took care of everything, whatever that means.”
“Jawhara!” Fajer slapped her hand against her knee for emphasis, “Ana cham marra agoollich don’t tell the guy everything?! Shfeech? Shako tgooleela?!” She fumed with anger at the thought of another guy taking advantage of Jawhara because of how easily she trusted them.
“What was I supposed to do, Fajoor? Dag 3alay oo ma gidart amsik ilbachya oo I just told him what happened!” Jawhara replied defensively.
“Still; make up anything! Tell him you got your period oo ba6nich yi3awrich! Tell him anything! Al7een shoofay what kind of problem bit9eer.”
“There won’t be any problems, Fajer,” Jawhara said quietly. Even though Jawhara knew Fajer wanted what was best for her, she couldn’t help but feel belittled everytime Fajer lectured her.
“I sure as hell hope not,” Fajer snapped, shaking her head. She kicked off her bed covers and slipped her cold feet into her fuzzy pink slippers and shuffled across her bedroom.
“Are you mad?” Jawhara made a face, feeling a little unnerved by the way Fajer reacted.
“I’m not mad,” Fajer sighed, “Jooj, you just need to know how to handle these situations better. Farthan Mbarak sawa 7ag A7med salfa oo it all turned and backfired on you? Then what are you gonna do? Call Mbarak and have him deal with it? Tara Kuwaiti guys may7iboon ilnakad wil3awar ras, babe. You and I know this very very well.”
“I know, but it just came out, ya3ni shasawi?” Jawhara frowned at Fajer’s lecturing. “I don’t think anything bad can happen from here. 5ala9, 6af.”
“Yeah,” Fajer mumbled and tried to lighten up the mood, “Inzain, apparently I have a surprise date with Wahab at 12.”
“Really?” Jawhara smiled for the first time that morning, “Do you know what you want to wear? Or do you want me to come over?”
Fajer smiled to herself; even though she’d just lashed out at Jawhara, Jawhara saw past it and was considerate enough to offer her help. “That would be nice. Ta3alay!”
“10 minutes wana 3indich,” Jawhara grinned and hung up. She picked out a white velour training suit which she matched up with a long-sleeve Kelly green undershirt and diamond clustered studs. Quickly washing her face and slipping everything on, she swung her door open and bounced down the stairs to find her mother sitting on the plush couch, quietly drumming her fingers on the armrest.

“9ba7 il5air, Mama,” Jawhara kissed the crown of her mother’s head and was about to turn around and head out the door when her mother stopped her.
“Wain ray7a?” Jawhara’s mother asked frostily.
“Fajer’s,” Jawhara replied, sensing her mother’s dry tone-of-voice. Nothing made her heart ache more than seeing her mother upset. “Shfeech, Mama?”
“Ta3alay, bakalmich shway,” her mother ordered, and Jawhara slowly turned around and walked back to the couch where her mother sat. She stared blankly at her mother and waited to hear what she had to say. “Gi3day, shfeech wagfa?”
Jawhara sat down next to her mother, concerned. “Shfeech, Mama?” Her heart beat rapidly in her ribcage, expecting to hear the worst.
After a long moment of silence her mother finally turned to her and said, “Mumkin tgooleeli bithab6 shino 9ar barra ilbeit ams?”
Jawhara fidgeted in her seat and huffed, not knowing how to explain the A7med situation to her mother. Her mother had never liked A7med; ever since Jawhara had started dating him, her mother kept a close watch on everything Jawhara did and saw how often her daughter was unhappy. Every time Jawhara was crying or didn’t feel like eating, her mother knew instantly that A7med was the cause, even when Jawhara would deny it continuously. Jawhara’s mother threatened time and time again to call A7med’s mother and inform her of the bad job she was doing at raising her son, but she knew she’d lose Jawhara’s trust if she ever did anything of the sort.
“Bitgooleeli wala la2? A7med shyayba 3ind beitna?” Jawhara’s mother repeated, her lips forming a tight line across her face.
Jawhara couldn’t help but lower her head at her mother’s disapproval. ‘It’s not like I told him to come,’ she felt like saying, but she knew better than to explain herself that way. Jawhara began slowly by telling her mother about the study group incident and how A7med was continuously staring and making her feel uncomfortable, and how she’d come home to find him waiting outside in the street. Jawhara’s mother huffed and puffed after every sentence her daughter spoke, furious at A7med’s nerve and the way Jawhara had reacted to the situation. “Mama, you should’ve called me,” her mother shook her head.
“Mom, adiglich and say what? That my crazy ex is outside the house threatening me?” Jawhara asked incredulously.
“Yes! Exactly that!” her mother’s eyes widened.
“Mama..,” Jawhara began, “I was already shocked oo scared. Shloon badiglich ya3ni?”
Jawhara’s mother dismissed her pathetic explanation and tutted, “Still, mali shi’3il.”
Jawhara sat quietly with her hands clasped between her knees, not knowing whether to sit around and twiddle her thumbs or to admit defeat and apologize so she could make her way to Fajer’s house. All she knew was that she couldn’t look her mother in the eye.
Jawhara’s heart panged with guilt for not confiding in her mother – when her father was alive, she’d found it easier to talk to her mother about the good and the bad because she knew she would probably get scolded by her father. But since her father passed away, Jawhara’s mother had turned into a mother and a father, so Jawhara never knew what to expect. “I’m sorry, Mama,” Jawhara murmured, feeling a tickle in her throat.
Jawhara felt her mother’s hand against her back, moving upwards and downwards in a clockwise motion. She never really understood why people did that until now – it really did help a person relax. The tense nerves in her back eased up slowly, sending a delightful tingle up to her shoulders and down to her lower back. “It’s ok, 7abeebti,” her mother smiled. Bes next time if anything like this happens, you tell me.”
Jawhara nodded, turning her head to look at her mother. She kissed her forehead softly hoping for approval, and when she saw her mother smile slightly, her heart swelled with joy. “I love you,” Jawhara said as she rest her head against her mother’s shoulder.
“I love you, too,” her mother replied, running her thin fingers through Jawhara’s wavy tresses.

After a brief moment, Jawhara told her mother she was going to Fajer’s house, excusing herself. She practically ran out the door and into the driver’s seat of her black SUV, ready to start the ignition. She plugged her iPod into the long auxiliary wire and tuned it to her favorite playlist before revving up the engine and making her way to Fajer’s house. The sun’s piercing golden rays made their way through the thick grey clouds, giving hopes that it wouldn’t rain. But as if she’d spoken too soon, a huge solitary raindrop splattered on her windshield as soon as she parked in Fajer’s driveway. As usual, Fajer’s parents weren’t home, so Jawhara ran inside, shielding her wavy locks from any more rain.
“Fajoor?” Jawhara called, her voice echoing against the walls of the high-rise foyer.
“I’m in here,” Fajer’s voice came from the living room. She lay on the massive brown leather couch in her pajamas, her brown curls cascading on her shoulders. The living room was completely dark except for the array of bright light coming from the muted television set.
“Shfeech ga3da bil’6alma?” Jawhara askled, reaching for the light switch.
“No!” Fajer almost shouted. “Dude, don’t turn on the lights. My eye is gonna freak you out.”
“Your eye? Shfeech?” Jawhara giggled. “Didn’t you wash your face this morning?”
“Yessss,” Fajer huffed, hugging her knees towards her chest, “Only to find that a stupid mosquito bit my eyelid!”
“No way!” Jawhara burst out laughing, “This I gotta see!” She turned on the light switch and walked closer to her friend who indeed had a left eyelid so pink and puffy that her eye was nothing but a small slit. Jawhara gasped, trying not to reach out and touch it with her finger.
“Don’t touch it!” Fajer flinched, “It hurts!”
“Quasimodo,” Jawhara joked, “you’re not supposed to be here, with the real people! Go to your room!”
“Ya shagool! Quasimodo, haa?” Fajer cried, stifling a laugh, “Ana awareech!”
“OK, Long John Silver,” Jawhara laughed. “Inzain 7e6ay cream 3alaih! Maybe yifish?”
“I don’t think ra7 yifish in an hour, Jojo,” Fajer whimpered, staring at the clock that hung above the television set. A rerun of Grey’s Anatomy was playing without sound, leaving Jawhara to try and read McDreamy’s lips.
“Try and see. Itha killish killish, just wear shades. And don’t take them off,” Jawhara smiled her mischievous grin.
“Don’t take them off?” Fajer repeated, getting up to stare at her face in the large gold-framed mirror. She tried to open her eye a little more than it would, but the burning sensation filled her tiny eye with tears that dribbled down her cheek. “Ow!”
“Fajoor, don’t cry,” Jawhara pouted, making a genuinely sad face.
“I’m not crying, Jooj,” Fajer chuckled, “It really really hurts.”
“Inzain tell Wahab you can’t come?” Jawhara offered up another suggestion that was immediately rebuffed.
“No, no, no,” Fajer disappointedly shook her head at herself in the mirror. “I’m gonna see him. I’ll just put stupid glasses on. Can we go pick out an outfit now? Mako wagt.”
“Yalla,” Jawhara smiled and led her friend up the winding staircase and into Fajer’s messy room.

Fajer flopped onto her bed, her curly mane bouncing behind her. Staring at Jawhara parading in front of her open closet, she shook her head every so often at the ungodly choices Jawhara picked out for her. “No, too madri shloon,” she’d say. When Jawhara pulled out a pale blue tunic, Fajer made an awful retching noise. “I don’t even know why that thing is still in my closet. It’s more than two years old!”
Finally, the girls settled on a camel-beige sweater dress, paired with thick brown leggings and of course, Fajer’s trusty pair of Uggs.
“3ad accessorize on your own,” Jawhara instructed, walking past Fajer’s large collection of earrings and necklaces.
“Sure,” Fajer snorted, “I think the glasses will be a big enough accessory. I’m just gonna wear pearl studs and a scarf.”
“That works,” Jawhara smiled, sitting down on the bed next to her best friend. She reached over into Fajer’s bedside table’s drawer and pulled out a thin white tube of Fucidin which she expertly applied to Fajer’s swollen eye.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I yelled at you or seemed mean earlier today,” Fajer sighed as Jawhara dabbed a finger full of pasty cream onto Fajer’s eyelid.
“It’s OK; itmooneen,” Jawhara smiled, wiping her hands together. “Inzain yalla, get dressed; you only have like 15 minutes.”
“I love you,” Fajer smiled with her eyes closed, stretching her arms out for a hug.
Jawhara hugged Fajer and patted her back lovingly. “I love you, too. You smell like potatoes. Shmakla?”
“I haven’t eaten a thing,” Fajer wrinkled her brow, smelling the sleeve of her pajamas. “They’re new pajamas so they smell funny.”
“I hope that smell doesn’t stick on you. Kafi your eye; you don’t wanna be smelling like potatoes, too!”
“Yalla 3ad yalla!” Fajer giggled. “Don’t make me feel worse!”
“I’m kidding,” Jawhara smiled, “Yalla goomay. I’m gonna get going.”
“Thank you sooooo much, babe,” Fajer hugged Jawhara again. “Pray for me.”
“7abeebti, illi yabeech, yabeech bi5yasich. There will be days worse than this,” Jawhara warned.
“Rabena yostor!” Fajer said loudly in the most hilarious and thick Egyptian accent. After exploding into fits of giggles, Fajer walked Jawhara out and ran up the stairs to get dressed.

Wahab called Fajer at exactly 12.15 PM, immediately asking if she was dressed.
“I’m dressed, bes more importantly, how was your exam?” Fajer asked, pinning up a loose strand of her hair.
“It was good, I think. I hope. I don’t wanna think about it al7een abi astanas wiyach,” Wahab smiled as he gripped the steering wheel and zigzagged through the streets. They arranged to meet up at the Surra co-op, where Fajer would park and ride with Wahab. It took her less than 5 minutes to reach Surra’s co-op, and after she’d found a secluded parking spot, she waited patiently for Wahab to come, silently praying that he’d cancel so he wouldn’t have to see her in such a miserable state.
Her mobile rang and his name flashed frantically across the screen, and she answered, guiding him to the spot where she had parked.
“Ka ashoofich,” Wahab said, and Fajer checked her rear-view mirror to see his shiny Lexus jeep pull up about a meter behind her. “Yalla rikbay, bes bserrrr3a la7ad yishoofich!”
“Inzain, kani nazla,” Fajer smiled.
“Fajoor, min 9ijji. Moo tig3ideen itdawreen jan6itich oo t3adleen mikyajich madri shitsaween! Bser3a ni6ay bilsayara gabl la yishoofoonich ilawadem,” Wahab repeated in a joking tone of voice.
“Inzaaaain, ha! Kani nazla!” Fajer laughed as she quickly turned off the ignition, got out of her car and climbed into the passenger seat of the Lexus jeep.
“Ya hala bilzain,” Wahab sighed as soon as Fajer had slammed the door shut. He reached out for her hand and placed it into his before driving off out of the parking lot.
“Hala feek,” Fajer said shyly, feeling her palms get hot. Her giant Versace sunglasses were doing a terrific job of hiding her plump eyelid, but a terrible job of allowing her to see how gorgeous Wahab looked today. His usual style of a hoodie and training pants was exchanged for a more preppy look – he wore a pair of dark distressed jeans with a striped button-up shirt that was cloaked with a burgundy V-neck Polo sweater. His white sneakers completed the look, but something was missing. Fajer peeked at his face and realized he wasn’t wearing sunglasses.
As if he read her mind, Wahab grinned from ear to ear and said, “Tara mako shams barra; iljaw ‘3aim.”, as if Fajer had absolutely no idea.
“I know,” she replied quietly, feeling uncomfortable. More than anything, she didn’t want to take her glasses off – it was only their second real date and Fajer was ready to go out of her way to avoid embarrassment.
Wahab gave her hand a light squeeze and laughed. “Fis5ay na’6artich, shfeech?”
“Mabi,” Fajer replied instantly, feeling a little rude for the way she’d answered him.
“Nasya t7i6een ke7ellll?” Wahab teased, sliding his elbow against the wide armrest. “3adi, shda3wa Fajoorti. Ana nisait a7e6 aftershave. 7adda 3adi.”
“Ma nisait a7e6 ke7el, Wahab,” Fajer moaned, almost laughing at herself when she remembered she’d only put ke7el in her right eye.
“3ayal shfeech?” Wahab raised an eyebrow, turning his head towards Fajer.
She took a deep breath and admired his beauty through her good eye. His clean shaven face looked so smooth, she wanted to rub the back of her hand against it. He’d left the saksooka as it was, just as Fajer liked, and his wavy hair looked neat. Best of all, Wahab’s gleaming brown eyes shone even when there was no sunlight to reflect off of them. ‘3yoon ilmaha,’ Fajer thought with a smile.
“Wahab, my eye hurts,” Fajer frowned sadly, not knowing how to explain herself. She could feel her left eye get smaller as the lump grew larger and more painful.
“5al ashoof,” Wahab pressured her, turning into a random fireej so that he could stop the car without disrupting traffic.
“Are you sure you want to see this?” Fajer asked uneasily, readying her hand to pull off her sunglasses.
“Lo mabi ashoof chan ma sa2alt; yalla Fajoor, show me!” Wahab started to get irritated.
Fajer sighed and gave in, slowly pulling her sunglasses away from her face. Just as she’d suspected, the lump on her eye was as big as a 50 fils coin, only with the volume of a blueberry. Thanks to the Fucidin that Jawhara had applied earlier, not only was the swelling pink and puffy, it was also glossy with the Fucidin’s residue.
“Offff!!” Wahab cried, reaching out to touch her eye. “Shloon chithee?? Shino hatha??”
“Don’t touch it!” Fajer yelped, jerking her head back away from Wahab’s curious hands. Wahab pulled his hand away and looked at her eye, analyzing it. “Tara you’re not making me feel so great when you’re looking at it like that.”
“7abeebti, I’m sorry, bes shloon chithee?” Wahab bit his lower lip, feeling Fajer’s pain.
“Bagga gre9atni, Allah yagre9 iblees’ha!” Fajer cried, and Wahab sputtered with laughter.
“Ya 7ilwich,” Wahab smiled as he picked up her hand and kissed it. “You’re still beautiful to me. Leave the glasses off.”
“Wahaaaab!” Fajer protested, but he tutted and grabbed her sunglasses, hiding them in the compartment of the driver’s door.
“Are you sure this is just a bug bite?” Wahab asked as they drove back out of the fireej. Fajer nodded and stared out of the window into the side mirror, examining her reflection. She wouldn’t look so bad if it weren’t for her crazy eye, but as long as Wahab didn’t mind, she figured she’d have to live with it.

They drove through Surra and into Jabriya, up and down the trafficked streets until they finally stopped at the infamous Al-Shanakel toy store. Wahab told Fajer to wait in the car, and he ran out onto the sidewalk and into the toy store. Fajer watched with confusion, observing the little children with their nannies and parents running around the bicycles and stuffed animals outside. A little girl with a tiny Fulla backpack ran up to a stuffed white bear twice her size and collapsed in it’s outstretched arms, begging her impatient mother to buy it for her. “Wayid kbeer, Mama,” her mother coaxed. “E5theelich shay a9’3ar!”. But the girl refused and tightened her grip on the humongous bear until her mother finally gave in and asked the stout Egyptian salesman how much the bear cost. Fajer smiled contently as the mother shelled out colorful dinar notes from her ratted leather purse, picked up the giant bear and loaded it into the back seat of her blue Pajero.
By that time, Wahab strolled out of the shop. He looked so out of place, Fajer couldn’t help but giggle. He opened the car door and handed a plastic bag to Fajer to hold as he sat in the driver’s seat and buckled himself in.
“What’s this?” Fajer asked, and Wahab reached out and took the bag away from her.
“This is for you,” he replied as he reached into the bag and pulled out a tiny brown bear and handed it to Fajer.
The bear was adorable; his short arms held a bright red heart that had the words “Get Well Soon” etched onto the front in white lettering. He was the softest bear Fajer had ever touched, and she lovingly stroked his head with her fingers. “Awww, Wahabiii! Laish chithee; you shouldn’t have!”
“Shda3wa, it’s a little something for you to remember me by,” Wahab held her hand again, interlocking his fingers with hers.
“Shloon ansak, ana?” she asked him lovingly. “You are so thoughtful, walla Wahab. Thank you.”
“Intay Fajoorti,” he cooed happily. “Don’t thank me. Tistahlain wayid akthar.”
“What else is in the bag?” Fajer smiled devilishly at two thick pieces of cardboard jutting out of the white plastic bag.
“Hatha, Allah yisalmich, shay 7aggi oo 7aggich. Oo itha ma libasteeh bariddich baitkum,” Wahab threatened jokingly.
“5anshoof shimhabbeb 7abeebi,” Fajer wondered aloud as Wahab pulled out the two large cardboard rectangles. Encased in plastic was a costume toy set, and Fajer read the bright green letters “Pirate Man” on the top. “NO!” Fajer cried, shaking her head violently in objection.
“Mooooo bkaifich!” Wahab laughed as he ripped open the pirate costume toy set. “Mabeech talbeseena killa!”
“Mara7 albis any of it!” Fajer complained, folding her arms across her chest.
“Agoolich mo bkaifich!” Wahab laughed. “Here, put this on bidal hal nathara illi kintay labsat’ha.” He handed her a black plastic eye patch that was secured with a long elastic string. “I’ll put one on, too.”
“Wahab!” Fajer tried miserably not to laugh, but he was too silly. She slid the elastic band her head and covered her pink eye with the plastic eye patch, and turned to look at Wahab, who’d put his patch on as well.
“You look soooo cute!” Wahab laughed boisterously, pinching Fajer’s cheek.
“I look ridiculous, and so do you!” Fajer exclaimed, not wanting to admit that the eye patch actually felt a little comfortable.
“Good. We can be ridiculous together,” Wahab grinned, his full cheeks pressing against the black eye patch. “Arrrrgh, matey!”
“Agool, ya matey,” Fajer was giggling so hard that her stomach began to ache. “Where are we gonna go looking like this?”
“You’ll see,” Wahab bit his tongue playfully and put the gear into drive.
“With one eye,” Fajer joked, “How are you going to drive?”
“I don’t care; ana 3adi asoog blindfolded,” Wahab reassured her. They drove out of Jabriya, not caring about who saw them or who made fun of their crazy get-up. Fajer placed her “Get Well Soon” bear onto her lap and leaned back against the seat, getting a natural high off the sound of the car’s engine and the sensation of Wahab’s smooth fingers gently rubbing her hand.

+++++ M7amed 3abdu - Da3ani Il-Shoog (3ood) +++++

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T01:46:00.000-08:00

Hey all!
A very very very happy new year to all of you. I hope 2009 is filled with wonderful memories and the best luck for all of you. Allah yi5aleekum li :) Thank you for keeping this blog alive and being so supportive! I love you all and hope you all had a safe and fun new years!

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 28)

2008-12-30T03:33:00.001-08:00

Mbarak dialed Wahab’s number frantically until he’d finally picked up. “Whayeb, bser3a. T3aref wa7id isma A7med Il-Flani?”
“A7med Il-Flani?” Wahab repeated, humming as he tried to remember where he’d heard that name before.
“Wahab, 5ale9ni!” Mbarak yelled, “T3arfa wala la2??”
”Ya5i shfeek? 6awil balik! A7medo Il-Flani mo rifeej 3laiwi?” Wahab asked Mbarak for reference.
“Ay 3laiwi? 3laiwi ma ‘3aira?” Mbarak’s eyes widened. How could a guy like 3ali befriend someone as trashy as A7med? 3ali was honest; also nosey, but honest nonetheless.
“Ee. Dig 3alaih oo es2ala,” Wahab advised, “Laish sh9ayer?”
“Magdar adig 3alaih wagoolla! Il-salfa t5e9 Jawhara,” Mbarak crinkled his brow, tapping a pen nervously on his bedside table. He briefly described the situation that had occurred with Jawhara and A7med earlier, and Wahab was extremely shocked.
“Imsawi nafsa rayal ya3ni, yimid eeda 3ala bint?” Wahab asked rhetorically, feeling Mbarak’s frustration.
“Adri. Bes ana a3alma, hal 7aywan,” Mbarak shook his head. He was hoping Wahab would have A7med’s number, but Mbarak came up with the idea of Wahab getting the number for him.
“Shloon ya3ni? Adig 3ala 3laiwi?” Wahab inquired, praying that 3ali wouldn’t interrogate him as to why he wanted A7med’s number.
“Dig, dig 3alaih,” Mbarak rambled, “Dig 3alaih oo digli; yalla bye.”
Before Wahab could get a chance to say anything else, the line disconnected and he was left staring at his phone. Wahab searched through his contacts for 3ali’s number, but when he called, he was greeted with the Call Waiting automated response. He figured he’d hang up and wait till 3ali called him back, but after long moments of waiting, 3ali never called back. Ten minutes later, Wahab redialed 3ali’s number, and much to his annoyance, 3ali’s phone rang.

“Ha 3laiwi,” Wahab spoke jokingly, trying to ease the tension that was building up inside of him.
“Hala, hala walla,” 3ali spoke dryly, making Wahab instantly regret calling him. “Sha5barik?”
“B5air, walla, inta shloonik?” Wahab smiled, leaning against his desk and gripping the tabletop with his free hand.
“Tamam,” 3ali replied, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Wahab heard 3ali suck his breath before he said, “Shba’3ait Whayeb?”
Wahab was taken aback by the way 3ali was talking; they were not the best of friends but they were on relatively good terms. Wahab frowned and thumbed his palm on the table top. “3indik raqam A7med Il-Flani?”
A long pause followed, unsettling Wahab. “Laish, shba’3ait minna?” 3ali replied defensively.
“Bes kint bas2ila cham sha’3la. 3indik raqma?” Wahab repeated irritabley.
”Ee 3indiyaah, bes sh7aga?” 3ali pressed. It was so like him to be nosey, wanting to know every detail of every situation that happened with his friends.
“Yuba 3a6niyaah wagoolik!” Wahab cried, his eyes widening at 3ali’s unbelievable nosiness. Satisfied with Wahab’s reply, 3ali gave in and rattled off A7med’s number to Wahab, who scribbled it down on the top of his notepad. “Mashkoor,” Wahab smiled as he wrote down the last digits. He hung up and called Mbarak, who picked up almost immediately.
“3a6niyaah,” Mbarak frowned, positioning a pencil on the top of his bedside table. His bedside table was covered with doodles and phone numbers of people he was too lazy to save in his mobile’s contacts. As Wahab recited the numbers, Mbarak etched them onto the table top so hard that the lead crumbled under the pressure. The tiny lead flecks sat patiently on top of the large thick numbers, waiting for Mbarak to brush them off with the side of his palm as he usually did. But this time, he didn’t. He hung up from Wahab and immediately called Mish3al, who worked at the local police station.
Mish3al and Mbarak had been friends for a long time – the kind of friends that drifted apart, but when they contacted one another, it was as if they never separated at all. Mish3al was loyal and always kept his word, which is why Mbarak turned to him in such situations.
“Halaaa, Bu Fahad!” Mish3al’s cheerful voice never failed to put a smile on Mbarak’s face.
“Hala hala, Bu Bader,” Mbarak returned the greeting followed by an exchange of the usual formalities. After they’d made small talk, Mish3al asked him what he’d needed. “Bu Bader, ma 3alaik amer; 3indi raqam wa7id mo metrabbi em2athi wa7da a3arefha.”
Mish3al sat in his small office at the police station, surrounded by stark white walls and a flickering neon light hanging above his head. “3a6ni ilraqam wilisim oo may9eer 5a6rik illa 6ayeb,” he smiled. Mish3al, a father of a son and a daughter, had zero tolerance for guys who bothered or harassed girls. Every time he’d hear of such a case, he made it a point to take extreme measures to punish the harasser, thinking of how he’d never want his little girl to be harmed.
“Raqma 9954… Oo isma A7med Il-Flani,” Mbarak fumed when mentioning his name.
“A7med Il-Flani,” Mish3al repeated as he jotted down A7med’s information. “Hatha cham 3umra?”
“Shdarani 3anna; yahel,” Mbarak frowned, “Mshai3el tikfa; illaila.”
”Tamer amer, 7abeebi,” Mish3al smiled, and as soon as he hung up, he began typing A7med’s name into the computer’s directory system. Several numbers and addresses appeared on the bright cobalt blue screen, and after finding A7med’s number among them, Mish3al began writing down his address and making a few phone calls.

Jawhara lay on her bed, still in her fleece sweatpants and sweater, feeling downhearted and tired. Her hair became stringy from all the tears and the strands clung to the side of her face and her cheeks. She pushed her hair off her face and took a deep breath, dialing Mbarak’s number one last time. ‘If he doesn’t pick up this time, I’m just gonna go to sleep,’ she thought to herself.
For the first time in the past hour, Mbarak’s phone rang without a busy tone and without a call waiting response. Within the first two rings, he picked up. Jawhara’s heart thumped as she mumbled, “Aloo?”
“7abeebti Jojo,” Mbarak beamed into the phone, “Laish ma nimtay?”
“Laish ma nimt?” Jawhara repeated, feeling a little irritated by his question, “Obviously I’m upset; ya3ni ma a3aref anam wana methayga, oo ba3dain you know I can’t sleep without hearing your voice.”
“7ayaaaati,” Mbarak sang, “Kani; I’m not going anywhere. Oo ba3dain la tethayegain. Hal 7mar mara7 yi2atheech ever again.”
“Inta shsawait?” Jawhara inquired, kicking off her thick sweatpants and staying in her leggings. She liked to wear leggings or tights under her sweatpants in the winter because they warmed her even more.
“Ana ma sawait shay; just made a couple of phone calls. Someone else is gonna take care of hal7aywan. Mara7 awase5 eedi 3ala hal ashkal.”
Jawhara blushed; Mbarak was like her knight in shining armor. She didn’t know how A7med was going to be “taken care of”, but she knew that no matter what, Mbarak would be by her side. “Thank you, Barooki.”
“Don’t thank me,” Mbarak stretched his arm and tucked it behind his head. “Intay namay, 7abeebti; ana banam ba3ad. Itha tabeen shay digeeli ok?”
“Inshalla, 7abeebi,” Jawhara smiled, feeling her skin tighten around her mouth.
“Oob, ‘7abeebi’! Yideeda hathi,” Mbarak grinned.
“You don’t like it?” Jawhara giggled, feeling her face get hot.
“No..,” Mbarak began, and Jawhara’s heart sank. “I love it.”
Jawhara’s face lit up for the first time in hours, and they wished each other a good night and pleasant dreams. After they’d hung up, Jawhara washed up and prayed for a better day tomorrow.
Mbarak turned onto his side, reaching out to switch off his lampshade. He stared at the dark numbers that he’d recently written onto his bedside tabletop and noticed the tiny bits of crumbled lead. With a sigh, he swiped the side of his palm against the surface, brushing away the lead granules, turned off the lampshade and went to sleep.

A faint police siren sounded in the distance as A7med sat near his bedroom window, puffing on a cigarette. He never usually smoked inside the house, but since his parents were on a long trip, A7med had turned the house inside out. The nanny scoured the rooms everyday, trying to re-order everything that A7med had misplaced, and burning frankincense whenever he’d have his friends over for snacks and smokes.
Much to his surprise, the police siren came closer until he could actually see two police cars pulling into the fireej where he lived.
With a menacing smile, A7med perched up onto his bed and leaned his head slightly out of the window, curious to see which of his neighbors was getting into trouble. It seemed like A7med wasn’t the only curious one; women stood outside their doorsteps wrapped in their robes and 3abayas, while children who were sound asleep, peered from their windows, awakened by the loud sirens and flashing lights.
A7med’s heart thumped when he saw a tall built police officer step out of the vehicle and onto the driveway of his house. Politely, the police officer rang the doorbell, and when he saw no response, he began ringing it several times.
A7med’s nanny, none the wiser, answered the door in fear of getting into trouble with the law if she didn’t abide. The police officer stepped inside the house, and the nanny cowered beneath his giant frame. A7med quietly crept down the stairs, trying to see what was going on, but the policeman was quick to notice A7med’s shadowy figure leaning against the banister.
“A7med Il-Flani?” the towering policeman asked, trying to get a better look at A7med’s face.
“Hala walla, u5ooy. Shba’3ait?” A7med stammered. It was the first time he’d ever encountered a policeman, let alone in his own home.
“Il-waled mawjood?” the policeman asked, furrowing his brow.
“La, walla; imsafer,” A7med replied with a small voice, reading the policeman’s name that was embroidered across his chest. ‘3abdulla Il-Flani,’ A7med noted, in case his father asked.
“Inzain, mumkin tiyi wiyay shway bes?” 3abdulla dug his hand into the pocket of his uniform.
A7med knew better than to disrespect a police officer or object to his demands, so he nodded, scared out of his mind. He followed 3abdulla into the street and climbed into the police car, nervously looking around at the people gathered in the street. Women gasped, clinging their inky 3abayas to their chests and faces, while children slapped their palms excitedly against the windowpane, hoping to catch the attention of the police officers.
3abdulla drove out of the fireej with his fellow police officer following them closely behind. “Wain ray7een, 6al 3umrik?” A7med gathered the courage to ask.
“Ilma5far,” 3abdulla replied sternly, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “3indina cham so2al, bes.”
A7med nodded, pale in the face. He looked outside his window and stared up at the night sky, silently praying that he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. It was almost midnight, and he was supposed to meet his friends at an apartment-turned-diwaniya in about an hour.

As soon as they pulled up in front of the sinister police station, A7med was quickly led inside by his upper arm and wasn’t let go until they all stood in Mish3al’s office. 3abdulla’s strong grip on A7med’s arm left a wincing pain, but that was the least of what was to come. Mish3al stood up and walked around his desk with a piece of paper in his hand. “A7med Jassim Il-Flani?” he asked. A7med nodded, the fear painting his face. “Ubook yadri 3an siwalfik?” Mish3al asked again, raising an eyebrow.
“Sh9ayer, 6al 3umrik?” A7med asked, not understanding what was going on.
“Sh9ayer?” Mish3al stifled a laugh, “T2athi banat ilnas oo lik wayh tis2alni sh9ayer?”
A7med’s eyes widened in fury. ‘Jawhara hal 7aywana!’ he wanted to scream, but before he had a chance to say anything to defend himself, Mish3al nodded his head, signaling the administering of a merciless thrashing.
A7med collapsed under the forceful slaps and kicks from 3abdulla and his fellow police officer, and his ears listened to the streaming multitude of curses aimed at him. He tried to protect himself by shielding his head with his arms, but the slaps came from every which way, leaving painful stings and faint bruises on A7med’s thick body.
After what seemed like forever to A7med, Mish3al cleared his throat while writing down a few more notes on his piece of paper. The beatings stopped, and A7med sat limply on the ground, leaning against the tacky brown faux leather couch.
“Goom,” Mish3al ordered, “Goom, yalla!”
A7med breathed heavily, tasting the blood from the gash in his lip. 3abdulla and his friend forced him up to his feet, pulling him by his upper arms again. A7med cried out in pain, but 3abdulla’s friend shoved him, telling him to shut up.
“Ilna’6ara,” Mish3al commanded, and with a dutiful nod, 3abdulla and his colleague dragged A7med out of Mish3al’s office, down the hall and into a cold empty jail cell. The door was locked and A7med, unable to believe the events that had just occurred, tried to absorb the scene he was in. The pasty white room was furnished with nothing but an insanely dirty and tattered red rug, and a white neon bulb hung naked from a wire that came down from the cracked moldy ceiling. A7med felt like he was about to throw up. He had no cell phone to contact anyone, and he didn’t know how long he’d be in here. He slumped his body against the dirty wall, dabbing his bleeding lip with his T-shirt.
Mish3al knew Mbarak would be asleep, so he sent him a text message letting him know that everything has been taken care of.

Jawhara stirred at 3 A.M. with a phone call from Mbarak. She rolled over in her bed after she’d picked up the phone, her sleepy voice barely able to say “Aloo”.
“Jawhara 7ayati, nayma?” Mbarak’s groggy voice filled her ears.
“Mmm..” she mumbled, sinking her head deeper into her pillow, “Shfeek mo nayim?”
“Nayim, bes kint bat6aman 3alaich. 5ala9, ridday namay,” Mbarak sighed.
“Zain,” Jawhara groaned, “T9be7 3ala 5air.”
“Wintay min ahala,” Mbarak replied, and after they hung up, he re-read Mish3al’s message with a content smile.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 27)

2008-12-24T06:52:00.000-08:00

A few hours later, the group had wrapped up their studying. Jawhara checked her mobile for the time – it was almost 10 PM. “We better get going; t2a5arna.” As she got up, she looked around nervously, her eyes darting to the empty couches where A7med and his lame friends once sat.
Mbarak frowned and put his hand on her shoulder “Shitdawreen?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Nothing,” Jawhara smiled and shook her head, relieved that A7med was nowhere to be seen.
They made their way out of Caribou Coffee and into the parking lot. Wahab followed closely behind Fajer, playfully propping his hands on her shoulder as if he was steering her. She walked in the direction of Jawhara’s SUV, but Wahab’s force pushed her in another direction. “Hey, wain? We have to go, Wahab!” she giggled, the icy air tickling her throat.
“Ana gilt batfaham wiyach ya3ni batfaham wiyach!” she heard the smile in his voice. They hopped over to where Wahab’s Lexus jeep was parked, and under the shady parking lot roofs, Fajer turned to face Wahab. “9ayra it’hableen ilyoom,” Wahab said in a low voice, his eyes twinkling as he caressed her cheek.
“Wahaaab,” Fajer groaned, unable to stop herself from beaming. “Inta shfeek 3alay?”
“Ma feeni shay, walla Fajoorti,” he snapped into serious mode, “This exam is one of the hardest oo abi anja7 3ashan a5ale9! Wana gayellich ahali ba3ad mo mga9reen with the 7anna oo 3awar ras.. Please.. La tiz3eleen minni..”
“Mo za3lana, Wahabi,” Fajer brought her hand to her cheek, enveloping his hand in hers. “I just don’t want this to be the way things are with us.”
Wahab pulled her free hand up to his lips and kissed her cold fingers. The warmth of his soft moist lips instantly came through to Fajer, sending prickles up her spine and into her chest cavity. “They won’t. I promise. It’s just temporary till this week is over, oo ba3dain ana killi lich.”
The moonlight streamed through the thin spacing between the parking roofs, casting it’s silvery light across Wahab’s face. His features were so well defined – his Kuwaiti nose that Fajer once thought was a little too big actually seemed sharp and not so pudgy. His lips glistened with moisture; he had a habit of running his tongue over his lips whenever he felt them getting too dry. Fajer remembered the time when she offered him her cherry Labello chapstick, which he greatly refused in fear of a pinkish red tint staining his lips. He’d lick his lips time and time again, and anyone that didn’t know Wahab would think that he was giving off sexual innuendos. And finally, Fajer’s favorite feature of all were his doe-like eyes – Wahab’s eyes were not too big and not too small, but his eyelashes were long, thick, and dark, which accentuated his dark pupils. His mother always told him that he’d inherited Bedouin features from his ancestors, a compliment that Wahab wore proudly on his chest.
For a brief moment, Fajer thought about how exhilarating it would be to kiss him in the darkness where no one could see them. She imagined pressing her longing lips against his and feeling the faint quiver of their attraction trembling back and forth. ‘Just a short sweet kiss,’ Fajer’s heart begged her, but her mind carried it’s stance over her rapid heartbeats, telling her no, even though the look in Wahab’s eyes said he was ready to kiss the life out of her.
Jawhara’s calling brought Fajer back to reality, and she threw herself into Wahab’s arms for a long hug. She drew in the scent of his cologne that seeped through his sweater, it’s strong fumes intoxicating her with every breath. Wahab gently pressed his lips against the crown of Fajer’s head. “Take care, Fajoorti,” he grinned, and Fajer nodded shyly, as if Wahab had read her deviant thoughts earlier.

As the girls drove back to Qur6uba, Jawhara sighed listlessly at the stress she was under. She desperately wanted to get the job at the bank, and because of A7med’s presence at Caribou Coffee, she was unable to concentrate as much as she’d hoped to. As soon as they pulled into the narrow backstreet that Jawhara’s house was situated on, the girls noticed a shiny smoky-grey Mercedes parked a few meters away from the driveway. Jawhara’s heart dropped to her stomach and her hands became cold and sweaty.
“Oh my God.. Fajer.. A7med hnee.. Fajer.. A7med hnee!” Jawhara cried, frantically shaking her daydreaming friend’s shoulder.
“Huh? Wain?” Fajer asked, jerking up in her seat.
“The Mercedes. Waaaay, Fajoor, what the hell does he want?!” Jawhara practically screamed, feeling the familiar tremble in her voice. It was the same tremble that came through whenever she and A7med used to fight and Jawhara would cry miserably to herself; the same tremble that echoed when she sobbed relentlessly after he’d slapped her.
“9ef6ay oo dishay; ma 3alaich minna!” Fajer told Jawhara, shocked at A7med’s audacity. He had the nerve to wait outside her home after everything he’d put her through?
Jawhara nodded, the fear painting her face. Her stomach was churning, as if she’d swallowed mouthfuls of chlorine water. Suppressing herself from gagging, Jawhara parked slowly, careful not to crash, and got out of the car as quickly as she could. To her surprise, her legs held her up, but they couldn’t walk fast enough. A7med was already standing outside of his car, a short distance away from Jawhara and Fajer.
“Sh’hal 9edfa il7ilwa,” he sneered, slamming the door of his car.
“Shtabi?” Jawhara asked loudly, ready to fight him off at any moment. Fajer whispered angrily for her not to talk back to him and just walk into the house, but Jawhara was nowhere within earshot, mentally and physically.
“T7achay 3adil la aheffich kaf,” A7med glowered as he inched closer to the girls. “6al3a wiya shabab, ha?”
“Mo shi’3lik!” Jawhara cried, feeling Fajer tugging at her arm. Jawhara pulled her arm away from Fajer, and though the tears were pooling in her eyes, she promised herself she wouldn’t let A7med have the last word.
“Mo shi’3li, ha? Mashi ya Jawhara; ana a3lamich,” A7med’s eyes reduced to angry slits that sat underneath his furrowed eyebrows. Before he turned around and gave the girls his back, he stepped closer to Jawhara and shook his head. “7asafa ubooch metwaffi, lana i9ara7a ummich ma 3refat itrabeech!”
“Roo7!” Fajer cried furiously, hating A7med even more than she ever has in her life. Jawhara’s body numbed at the mention of her father, and she contemplated picking up a nearby tomato crate and hurling it at A7med’s broad back, but her feet were planted firmly to the ground, and her back wouldn’t bend. The tears that once sat patiently in the rims of her eyelids had overflowed and spilled onto her cheeks, dribbling down to her chin and neck. “I don’t belong to you!” Jawhara screamed at his back, and he threw his hand up as if to dismiss her.
When Jawhara was positive that A7med’s car was out of sight, she stumbled back into her house, cradled in Fajer’s arms.

Without even saying hello to her mother, Jawhara flopped up the stairs, supported by Fajer’s shoulder. She was unable to stop the tears from flowing, not only because of the way A7med had spoken to her, but also because of the indescribable fear that A7med would never leave her alone. Fajer quietly closed and locked Jawhara’s bedroom door and went to sit near Jawhara, who had thrown herself onto her bed like a dead fish. Cries muffled by Jawhara’s thick satin duvet filled the room, and Fajer tried her best to calm Jawhara down. After a series of cursing A7med and consoling Jawhara, Fajer shushed her by asking “Jojo, you don’t want to let your mother hear you cry like this, do you?”
“Nhh..,” Jawhara grunted as she turned her head to the side to look at Fajer. Fajer’s downcast eyes looked at Jawhara, her eyes pink and puffy like marshmallows. Her tear-stained face was drained of color, and her breath shuddered every time she inhaled.
“Goomay ‘3aslay wayhich, 7ayati,” Fajer tried to ease Jawhara up, but gravity was not on her side.
“I want him to leave me alone,” Jawhara mumbled, and two tears slid onto her cheeks.
“He will, hal 7aywan. Walla, he will,” Fajer sighed, leading Jawhara to the bathroom. She held Jawhara’s thick honey hair back as splashed cold water onto her face. Jawhara reached out and patted her face gently with a terrycloth face towel. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes still stinging from all the crying. “I hate him,” she said to the person in the mirror, as if her reflection was another evil person that had brought A7med into her life. But the truth burdened Jawhara; it was partly her fault – she should’ve seen the red lights flashing, but she chose to ignore them for the sake of being in a relationship.
Fajer’s phone rang; it was her mother. “Fajer, wainich?” her mother’s voice was always so loud. Fajer cringed and moved the phone away from her ear in fear of having an eardrum burst.
“3ind Jawhara, Mama,” Fajer replied, her voice echoing against the tiles of the bathroom.
“Yalla riday, mama, t2a5ar ilwagt,” her mother spoke, and Fajer complied. Once Fajer hung up, Jawhara nodded understandingly before Fajer even explained that she had to go.
“Are you gonna be ok?” Fajer asked as she locked Jawhara into a tight hug.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks babe,” Jawhara forced a tiny smile and was about to walk Fajer out to her car, but Fajer held her hand up in protest.
“5aleech; erta7ay. I’ll call you as soon as I get home,” Fajer smiled and bounced down the stairs and out the door to her car.

As if on cue, Mbarak called Jawhara as soon as Fajer left. The phone rang for a few seconds before Jawhara picked up, giving herself time to regain her composure. But her voice betrayed her, and with the croaky “Aloo” he wasn’t used to hearing, Mbarak knew something was wrong.
“Jawhara, 7abeebti shfeech?” Mbarak asked, turning the loud TV down.
“Ma feeni shay,” Jawhara sniveled, trying hard not to cry. More than anything, she wanted Mbarak next to her, holding her and protecting her from everything. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of how safe she felt in his embrace, trying to remember the scent of his cologne and how comfy it made her feel inside.
“Jawhara,” Mbarak pressed softly, though he was getting irritated by the way she kept things from him, “Bitgooleeli shfeech wala la2?”
His soft loving voice made her crack; she started off with a tiny sob that turned into a small wail and finally a grand cry. “Laaaa! La tabcheen, Jawharti! 7ayati?” he spoke through her cries, trying to calm her down. He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm, but he couldn’t stand to hear his beloved Jawhara cry. “Shino imbacheeh?? Gooleeli, yalla 3aaad!”
The tightness in Jawhara’s chest formed a pain, which slowly stopped her from crying. When her weeping died down, Mbarak’s heart softened. “7abeebti?”
“Mmm,” Jawhara pouted, dabbing her eyes with a handful of tissues. She shamelessly blew her nose, not caring that Mbarak may get grossed out by the sound of her nose trumpeting. After her nose had finished it’s symphony, a stark silence filled her ear. “Aloo?” she mumbled, hoping that Mbarak hadn’t given up on her.
“3umri,” his voice, well above a whisper, eased her ailing spirit. “Shfeech Jawharti? Min imza3lich?”
Jawhara took a deep breath and gathered her courage, and began recounting the events that had happened less than an hour ago. She sadly told Mbarak about the nasty things A7med had said and the way he threatened to slap her again. Mbarak listened silently at every word Jawhara said, feeling an angry flame ignite in his body. His eyes widened and he gritted his teeth, ready to go out and find A7med and beat him to a pulp. When Jawhara stopped talking, he spoke in the most livid tone of voice Jawhara had ever hear. “Bitgooleeli isma wala la2?”
“Barook, tikfa, mabi meshakel,” Jawhara pleaded, pulling her duvet up to her chest and tucking it under her arms.
“Maaaalich shi’3il intay. Bitgooleeli isma al7een,” Mbarak raised his voice, seething.
After a moment of Jawhara contemplating whether or not she should tell Mbarak A7med’s name, she gave to his persistence.
“A7med,” Jawhara revealed, bunching the wad of tissues in the palm of her sweaty hands.
“A7med shino?” Mbarak almost shouted. The veins throbbed in his temples, and he had to restrain his bunched fists from breaking something.
“A7med Il-Flani,” Jawhara said quietly, silently praying that they didn’t know each other.
“Bye,” Mbarak barked after a short silence, and the phone line disconnected before Jawhara could say another word. Confused, she called back several times, and Mbarak rejected her calls until she called one last time to find “Call Waiting” flashing on her screen. “Yurja ilentithaar..” the voice of the Zain automated reply annoyed Jawhara, and she hung up the phone, knowing that Mbarak wouldn’t be answering her calls anytime soon.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 26)

2008-12-20T03:13:00.000-08:00

“You’re phone’s ringing, Fajoor,” Jawhara stated the obvious, “Pick up.”
“It’s Wahab,” Fajer sighed, rolling over on the carpet.
“Ee, pick up! Weren’t you trying to call him gabel shway?” Jawhara frowned. She didn’t understand the whole playing hard-to-get game that most girls thought was necessary.
Fajer grumbled and propped herself up on one elbow, stretching her other arm out to grab the ringing phone. “Aloo..” she spoke softly.
“Fajoor, intay wainich?” Wahab asked, concerned. He sat on the ledge of his bed and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Waini? I should be asking you the same thing,” Fajer replied, her voice stiffening. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you and sent you messages? Shfeek ma trid?”
Flustered, Wahab sighed deeply. “Fajoor, ana giltlich I was studying. I told you I have a huge exam bacher oo 9arli 2 days adris.”
“Still, Wahab. That doesn’t mean you don’t pick up the phone. You didn’t think I was worried about you?”
“Fajoorti,” Wahab began, his heart sinking, “Walla I’m sorry. It’s not an easy exam.”
“Well I wasn’t calling to waste your time. Anyways, if you wanna study, ana oo Jawhara oo Mbarak are going to Caribou Coffee tonight to study. It’s quiet there – you coming?” Fajer offered, not expecting a positive reply. She always told herself that if she didn’t expect anything, she’d never be disappointed. To her surprise, Wahab agreed in attempt to make up for his neglecting her.

Jawhara got dressed in comfier sweats, tucking the leg of her pants into chestnut colored mid-calf high Uggs. They were her favorite pair of boots, even though she had a vast collection of very stylish shoes and boots – they were so comfortable and the way the sheep-wool insides warmed her toes made her feel like life was perfect. Fajer sat on the ledge of Jawhara’s bed, pulling on her mukluks. “Can’t I go home and change real quick?”
“Ma yamdi, Fajoor. Itha you need anything, borrow min 3indi. Bes they’re gonna be there in 20 minutes oo you know me, ma7ib at2a5ar,” Jawhara explained. “Besides, you look fine.”
“Madri,” Fajer began, “A7is these mukluks are too much.”
“Bil3aks! 7adhum cute,” Jawhara assured her, and grabbed her keys and the training booklets that the bank had given to her before heading out of her room. “I hope I get the job,” she sighed as she opened the door to step outside. A cold gust attacked her, and she hugged her booklets to her chest and bowed her head against the merciless wind.
Fajer buzzed her lips and bunched her fists into the side pockets of her camel-colored oversized sweater and braved the weather, walking quickly to her car. “You’ll get it; I know you will,” she gasped, her teeth chattering. Fajer grabbed her books and notebook out of the back seat of her car and ran to Jawhara’s SUV. Jawhara was already in the driver’s seat, warming up the car’s engine and rubbing her icy hands together.
Within minutes, Jawhara pulled out of her driveway onto the slippery roads, and they drove to Caribou Coffee in the Free Trade Zone. The drive, as all of their winter drives were, was quiet except for Jawhara’s bulky iPod playing M7amed 3abdu jalsat. Fajer stared longingly out the window, drawing patterns on the fogged up glass with her finger. First, she drew a happy face, and then proceeded to wipe it away and replace it with outlines of hearts and flowers.

When the girls pulled into the small dark parking area of Caribou Coffee, their eyes searched for Wahab and Mbarak’s cars. Fajer instantly spotted Wahab’s Lexus jeep and had to stop herself from rolling her eyes all the way back into her head.
“Shfeech? Yalla 3ad,” Jawhara begged, “Don’t be like this.”
“I’m not being like anything,” Fajer replied coldly, “I just don’t like being ignored.”
“None of us do, babe. Just 3adlay mazajich please oo let’s try to get some studying done,” Jawhara tried to calm her best friend down. Fajer sighed and nodded, grabbing her books and letting herself out of the car. Jawhara locked the car as they both walked away from the shadowy parking lot and into the brightly lit café.
A wave of nostalgia washed over Fajer; every time she walked into Caribou Coffee, the big brown leather furniture and the hardwood floors brought thoughts of a happier life. She thought of cowboys and mountaineers and how cozy and comfortable they were in their country-style homes, sitting by a blazing fireplace with their loved ones as the sunset painted the sky hues of indigo and orange outside. Nothing completed her imagination better than a steaming cup of coffee, and to add to her pleasure was the Christmas-themed paper cups that dragged her thoughts farther and farther away. Fajer instantly thought of Bnaider – the sole reason why she fell in love with Bnaider was because it was, in a unique way, her country-style life away from reality.
Fajer and Jawhara acknowledged Mbarak and Wahab’s presence, nodding and smiling to them, and motioning that they were going to get their drinks before having a seat with them. Mbarak and Wahab were seated in a homely corner of the café, with two empty leather armchairs facing the ones they were already sitting on.
“Two turtle mocha’s please; skimmed milk, no whipped cream,” Jawhara rattled off their order as Fajer looked around. Caribou Coffee was particularly empty today, except for three girls sitting at a wooden table typing away at their laptops, and a group of five or so guys who were shamelessly staring at Jawhara and Fajer from the moment they walked in. Fajer’s eyes stopped skimming through the crowd when she locked gazes with a face so familiar, she wanted to throw up.
“Jooj,” she nudged Jawhara with her elbow, still staring at the guy. “Jawhara, whatever you do, don’t look at the group of guys that are sitting.”
“Laish?” Jawhara asked quietly, turning her upper body slightly to look at Fajer.
“If I’m not mistaken, A7med’s here,” Fajer whispered audibly.
The rosy color that had settled in Jawhara’s cheeks immediately drained away, along with the moisture that was in her throat. She felt her heart thump wildly like African drums, threatening to burst out of her chest. All that was left was for Jawhara’s knees to buckle and leave her to drop to the floor, but Jawhara stood still, the fear seeping out of every pore in her body.
“You’re serious?” Jawhara whispered incredulously. A gut-wrenching ache consumed her stomach when she saw Fajer nod. “7igreeh, don’t look,” she said sternly to Fajer, but in truth, she was actually commanding herself.
Fajer made a face and turned away, grabbing her drink from the counter and walking behind Jawhara to where the guys were sitting. For a moment, Fajer felt relieved to see Wahab and knowing he was there to protect her in case anything happened, but then she realized that he’d been ignoring her all day. She raised her eyebrows uncertainly, as if to question him.

After they all greeted each other, the girls sat down and opened up their books. Jawhara stared at the pages of her training booklet, unable to make out the muddle of words that were printed on the crisp white pages. She tried reading a few words but they didn’t make sense to her, and with pleading eyes, she looked up at Mbarak.
“7abeebti, shfeech?” Mbarak asked quietly, leaning over the oak coffee table between them. He noticed the glaze in Jawhara’s eyes as he looked into them. “9ayer shay?”
She shook her head slowly like a lost child who was too scared to speak. What was she supposed to tell him? That her ex-boyfriend that practically abused her was sitting only three meters away from them, burning holes in her body with his tyrannical glare?
“Akeed?” Mbarak asked tenderly, closing his textbook and leaning in closer. “Tara itha tabeen, we can go outside for a minute and you can tell me what’s bothering you.”
Jawhara shook her head again and thanked him, quietly wishing that Mbarak wouldn’t make it seem obvious that she was bothered by A7med’s being there.
Mbarak shrugged helplessly and opened his textbook back to the page he was studying, looking up at Jawhara every once in a while to make sure she was alright.

Fajer flipped through the pages of her notebook to find the last set of notes she had scribbled down in her management class, and when she looked at Wahab, he was frowning at his book with his head propped on his hand, his finger digging into his cheek.
“I’m sorry, is the noise bothering you?” Fajer asked, referring to the rustling sound of the pages of her book.
Wahab shook his head without looking up from the page he was reading, trying his best to concentrate. After he’d finished reading the sentence, he looked up at Fajer, who had a firm harsh look on her face. “Shfeech, ba3ad?” Wahab asked playfully.
“Madri 3annik! Busy, busy. You can at least look up from your book to answer me. Shda3wa, Wahab!” Fajer grumbled rapidly and shook her head, angrily flipping through the pages of her notebook until a page ripped in half from her mishandling. Fajer closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Zain chithee? My notes ripped.”
Wahab couldn’t help but laugh at Fajer’s temper tantrum. “Fajoora, mamati, calm down. Shirbay, shirbay your coffee. Ana atfaham wiyach ba3dain.”
Fajer looked at him, stifling a giggle; he was just too cute to be mad at. Wahab smiled and continued to read his papers while Fajer stared him down. His hair was neatly combed, held away from his face by his infamous elastic headband. His messy eyebrows almost met at the middle when he frowned, his deep brown eyes piercing the words printed in his notebook. And lastly, Fajer’s favorite, was the adorable navy blue Polo hoodie he was sporting with dark grey fleece training pants. Smiling, Fajer picked up her mobile phone and sent him a text message, even though he was sitting right across from her.
Wahab’s phone beeped loudly when the message was sent, and he dug his hand into the pockets of his pants to pull it out. The message read: “way etshaweg ma7ibik ;(“
He looked up at her with a sly smile, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. “Fajoor. 7ayati intay. Ubooy intay. Please dirsay oo 5aleeni adris; tara walla bagoom agre9ich al7een!”
“Fiiine,” Fajer gave in with a giggle, flipping through her notes again until she found the last things she’d written.

Jawhara took a long sip of her steaming Turtle Mocha. The hot drink almost burnt the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t care. The strong coffee flavor came through the thick gush of sweet caramel and chocolate along with traces of crunchy bits of nuts, enveloping the insides of her mouth and calming her down. She closed her eyes, trying to sort through and rearrange her thoughts; she needed to pass this training exam if she wanted the job.
A7med stared at Jawhara from a distance, delighted at the way she was seemingly unsettled and uncomfortable. He thought about how nice it would be to hear her angelic voice again, or how thrilling it would be to hold her in his arms and feel her melt into his body the way she used to. A7med loved having Jawhara wrapped around his little finger, and he exercised that benefit to it’s full potential. Even after he’d slapped her for wearing shorts that were a little too short for his liking, she’d cried herself right back into his arms. A7med smirked as he stirred the brown sugar into his coffee, looking over at Jawhara every once in a while.
Jawhara’s phone beeped with a message, interrupting her thoughts. A text message from a number that she recognized as A7med’s read: “medach neseteeni 6al3a weya 7abebech ashkara haa!”
Her heart began to race and lumps formed in the back of her throat as she quickly deleted the message without replying.
“Mino?” Mbarak asked, looking up from his textbook.
“Nothing; da3aya,” Jawhara lied, not wanting to start any drama.
Mbarak nodded and went back to reading, but the sound of Jawhara’s phone beeping with numerous text messages distracted him. Mean messages from A7med flooded her inbox one after the other, and when Jawhara looked over to him, she saw his thumbs tapping away at the keypad of his Nokia E71. Jawhara smiled sweetly as diverted her phone calls to Fajer’s phone and turned her own phone off.
“3asa ma shar?” Mbarak was now frustrated; ever since she’d walked in, Jawhara was acting strange.
“Mako shay, Barook; shfeek?” Jawhara assured him, nervously curling the edges of her booklet.
“Mo 3ala ba3thich killish; madri,” Mbarak shrugged and asked her again if she’d like to go outside to talk. Jawhara thought about his offer for a minute and figured it would be best to go outside and smell some fresh air, and more importantly, get away from A7med.
Mbarak led Jawhara outside, his hand on the small of her back. A7med, seething and enraged, watched them walk outside. For a split-second he thought about following them outside and making a scene, but he decided to stay put.

The cold night air was a refreshing difference from the dizzying warmth of the café. Mbarak held Jawhara’s hand, interlocking his fingers with hers, and they walked to where Mbarak’s Silverado was parked. The shiny black body of his car reflected the faint moonbeam, and Jawhara was reminded of the inky nighttime sea where she and Mbarak swam.
“Al7een gooleeli shfeech?” Mbarak inquired, leaning against the passenger door of his car. Jawhara faced him, their hands still interlocked, and an obvious look of discomfort tensing her face.
She sighed, watching a small puff of steam curl into the air. “He’s inside,” she blurted out.
“Who’s inside?” Mbarak frowned, getting impatient. He didn’t like mind games or beating around the bush. “Tell me, latlifeen witdooreen!”
“Ma ga3da alif wadoor!” Jawhara cried, feeling wound up. “My ex! He’s inside! Remember I told you about him? He’s inside and he keeps looking and it’s making me uncomfortable!”
“Wain ga3ed?” Mbarak glowered, his cheeks flushing with angry heat.
“The group of guys illi ga3deen yam ilcounter. He’s one of them,” Jawhara said quietly, burying her head in Mbarak’s chest. The distressed appliqué of his Lacoste sweater rubbed against her cold cheeks, warming them up. Through the thick fleece of his sweater, Jawhara could feel Mbarak’s heart beating. “Shfeek?” she asked, worried that maybe Mbarak recognized A7med as one of his friends.
“Ma 3alaich minna; 5al yiwalli!” Mbarak said angrily, rubbing his hand up and down Jawhara’s back.
”Do you know any of them?” Jawhara wondered, hoping his answer would be negative.
“No,” Mbarak replied, and Jawhara breathed a sigh of relief, “And I don’t want to either. Was he the one sending you text messages?”
Jawhara, with her head still against Mbarak’s chest, nodded.
“Shiygool?” Mbarak’s voice became louder.
“Nothing; just him being an ass,” Jawhara replied, biting her lip.
“Mara thanya when I ask you something, be honest. Oo if he sends you another message, tell me; ana atfaham ma3ah.”
Jawhara nodded again and apologized, and Mbarak kissed the crown of her head before they made their way back inside.
Once inside, Mbarak turned his and Jawhara’s chairs away from everyone else, so that they faced Fajer and Wahab and the glass window that overlooked the parking lot. Jawhara turned her phone back on and deleted all of A7med’s messages, until her phone beeped with one more message. Mbarak didn’t look up from his papers but smiled, and Jawhara worried that A7med would send her yet another message that would result in a showdown between him and Mbarak. But to her delight, it was a message from Mbarak. “a7sed 3yooni 3ala shofek wa’3ar men elli yeshoofoonek.. yaretaha tesma7 ‘6roofek men gurb aw bu3d bashofek.. ya zen men kether ma a7ebek samoni el3asheg el’3ayyar ;*”

Jawhara kissed the screen of her mobile phone, and Mbarak’s closeness to her made her feel protected. For the first time that evening, she didn’t care that A7med was sitting only a few meters away from her, watching her every move. All that mattered to her was that Mbarak was sitting less than a meter away from her, by her side with every move she made. Fajer, Jawhara, Wahab and Mbarak studied in peace, soaking in as much knowledge as their brain could take for those few hours.

+++++ 3abood 5owaja - Il-3ashig Il-'3ayyar +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 25)

2008-12-15T04:03:00.000-08:00

“What,” Fajer began in a low voice, “Is that thing doing here?”
“I don’t know! What the hell?” Jawhara made her way slowly down the stairs and Fajer trailed behind her.
“Jawhara, 7abeebti, hathi rifeejti Huda min ayam ilthanawiya!” Jawhara’s mother exclaimed happily, “And this is her daughter Reem.”
“Mmm,” Jawhara hummed, acknowledging their arrival. She couldn’t believe how sneaky these women were!
“7abeebti, shloonich?” Huda smiled wryly and kiss-kissed Jawhara.
“B5air, il7mdilla,” Jawhara replied politely, moving on to kiss Reem’s cheek. Fajer followed suit, seemingly uncomfortable.
Within moments, they sat down at the dining table, the older women exchanging formalities and making small talk while Reem, Fajer, and Jawhara sat quietly. Reem eyed Jawhara, inspecting her au-naturelle hairdo and her cute Juicy training set – she’d wanted one just like it a few months ago but couldn’t find one in her size. Fajer unabashedly stared at Reem in return, picking apart her fashion sense – she was wearing an emerald green jacket with gold hoop earrings, skin tight jeans tucked into knee-high brown boots. ‘She looks like she escaped the marching band,’ Fajer thought, giggling to herself.
Rose brought out the lunch; a large bowl of rocket salad with beets and pomegranate, machboos diyay, and Fajer’s favorite, grilled jumbo prawns and crab-cakes.
“You made crab-cakes?” Fajer whispered to Jawhara delightedly, poking her side.
“Ushhh!” Jawhara shushed her, her eyes widening, “Eat now; thank me later.”
“A7ibich,” Fajer said melodically, picking up two large crab-cakes and setting them on her plate. She immediately forked a big chunk off, dipped it in the Thai dressing that had accompanied it, and bit into it. The sweet tender crab meat melted in her mouth, and the flavors that had accompanied it sprang to life like a symphony. Fresh coriander flecks released their zesty taste, as well as the tart lime, chili, and corn. Fajer closed her eyes in utter bliss as she chewed, savoring the wonderful flavors before it was time for another bite.
“Walla, tawna ams radeen min ilshalaih. Tadreen ba3ad, iljaw te’3ayar,” Huda’s voice got the girls’ attention.
“Ee walla, shyga3edkum ibhal jaw?” Jawhara’s mother smiled as she served Huda and Reem. The rain splattered loudly against the windowsill, reminding them of the dreary weather.
“3ad goolay mino t’3ada 3indina? Tathkereen wild Fahad Al-Flani?” Huda said slyly, glancing at Jawhara to see her reaction. Jawhara’s stomach flipped at the mention of Mbarak; she now knew why his friends called him Bu Fahad. She tried to keep her cool even though the incident still bothered her, even when Reem looked over at Jawhara, smiling smugly at the fact that she had the upper hand with Mbarak’s family.
“Fahad Al-Flani illi murta 7e9a Al-Flani?” Jawhara’s mother grinned, carving the chicken breast on her plate into slices.
Huda’s face turned pale, as did Reem’s. After a quick pause, Huda stammered, “Haw, it3arfeen 7e9a?”
“Ee, ha 3ayal! Ana oo 7e9a kinna indawem bilKOC, oo min tewafa ubo Jawhara Allah yir7ama, 6ela3t min ilshareka oo ge6a3na. Min ziman 3anha 7e9a!” Jawhara’s mother smiled while reminiscing on the good times she had with Mbarak’s mother, a warm glint in her eye. Jawhara and Fajer were practically awestruck at the fact that Mbarak’s mother and Jawhara’s mother were once friends.
Self-satisfied, Jawhara and Fajer raised their eyebrows at Reem. Fajer pronged a large piece of her crab-cake and dipped it into the sauce. “Il-Kuwait kabat,” she hummed loudly before taking a triumphant bite. Jawhara lightly kicked Fajer’s leg under the table, signaling her stop before things got ugly. But in truth, Jawhara was enjoying the powwow that was going on, and her insides were bubbling over with joy; she couldn’t wait to share the news with Mbarak.
The rest of the lunch was filled with tension so thick that it could be cut with a knife. The only people who were oblivious to it were Jawhara’s mother and baby Joori, who was happily bunching the fragrant saffron rice in her hands and pressing it into her mouth. Joori picked up her plastic Disney Princess tumbler and brought it to her lips, noisily sipping her diluted orange juice. “Mama, I finished,” she said, and placed her tumbler on the table top.
“Akramkum Allah,” Huda said politely after they’d finished eating.
“3alaikum bil3afya,” Jawhara’s mother smiled, leading them to the living room for tea and cake.
Fajer and Jawhara sat slumped on the couch, glued to one another’s side while Reem sat next to her mother across the room. While the older women chatted vigorously, the three girls stared tentatively at one another, sometimes raising their eyebrows in triumph and at other times rolling their eyes. Reem flipped her hair back and mumbled something to her mother, indicating that she wanted to leave. Loudly, Huda said something along the lines of “Ni6ray shway; ana oo 5altich ga3deen insolef!”
Reem’s face turned a deep shade of pink and she quietly stirred her tea, watching the sugar granules and threads of saffron swirl around in the current her spoon had created.

“Jooj, I have to study; when is this shindig gonna end?” Fajer whispered to Jawhara, who was happily indulging in a slice of raspberry tea cake.
Jawhara forked a piece of the sugary cake and brought it close to Fajer’s lips. “Al7een, shway bes. Try this.”
Fajer took the piece of cake into her mouth and closed her eyes blissfully. This wasn’t an ordinary cake – what used to be an run-of-the-mill pound cake was now laced with plump raspberries. The sweet fruit left big red explosions in the marigold cake, infusing it’s tart sugariness into every bite. To top it all off, confectioner’s sugar was dusted lightly on the top, and the fresh warmth of the cake had reduced it to a translucent glaze. “This is better than Little Treats,” Fajer murmured, picking at another piece of the cake.
“3awafi,” Jawhara smiled. “5allay ilstudying 7ag tonight; we’ll all go. Tell Wahab to come, too.”
Reem watched them, an ache forming in her chest cavity. She’d never had a real best friend before, and it envied her how Fajer and Jawhara were so close all the time and never got tired of seeing each other. Reem longed for a real friend to laugh with and share crazy memories with, but sadly, all of her old friends drifted away from her after she’d become so self-important and mean. For a split-second, Reem imagined how it would be if she tried to become friends with Jawhara and Fajer, but her thoughts immediately vanished at the sight of her mother. There was no way Reem could possibly have a single friend without completing what was on her mother’s agenda first.

A few minutes later, Huda and Reem excused themselves, saying they had to do some last-minute shopping for their upcoming trip before the malls became too crowded.
“7ayakam Allah,” Jawhara’s mother said cheerily, and after a train of formalities and good-byes, Reem and her mother left, leaving Fajer and Jawhara to bombard Jawhara’s mother with questions.
“Mama, two questions; first of all, how do you know this woman?” Jawhara crinkled her face.
“I've known her min ayam ilthanawiya oo bil9edfa I saw her again 3ind beit 5altich Haya two weeks ago; laish?” Jawhara’s mother replied.
“La, bes as2al,” Jawhara said quickly, more interested in the answer to her second question.
“They’re really nice, mo?” Jawhara’s mother smiled, picking up the empty estikanas and placing them on the silver tray.
“Ee, wayid nice, 5alti,” Fajer said sarcastically, clucking her tongue.
“Inzain, yuma; second question. Who is 7e9a Al-Flani, and how well do you know her?”
Jawhara’s mother poured herself her last estikana of tea and sat down between Jawhara and Fajer. “7e9a Al-Flani; a6yab insana 3eraft’ha ib7ayati. When we worked bilKOC, she’d always bring breakfast for everyone. Oo kinna nishte’3el wiya ba3ath fee wayid projects. I was fresh fa ma kint a3aref wayid nas, bes kanat dayman wiyay oo she was so friendly.”
Jawhara’s face lit up with every word. “3ayal laish ma itdigeen 3alaiha, Mama? Maybe you’d like to see her again?”
Jawhara’s mother looked at her daughter with questioning eyes, ”Why the sudden interest in my friends and who I talk to?”
Fajer stifled a giggle and looked at Jawhara, who had a pert smile plastered on her face. Jawhara was always brutally honest with her mother – she even told her about A7med, but of course, not all of the gruesome details of their relationship. Jawhara’s mother was nothing short of her best friend. “Because…,” Jawhara sang.
“Because what?” her mother raised her eyebrows suspiciously.
“Just say it, Jooj!” Fajer laughed, shaking her head at her friend’s miserable attempt to hide things from her mother.
“Because I’m kinda talking to her son,” Jawhara blurted out quickly and bit her lower lip hard.
“Which son? Yousef?” Jawhara’s mother said incredulously.
“Nooo, not Yousef, Mama! Mbarak!” Jawhara whined, feeling embarrassed. She could feel her face start to turn a million shades of red.
“Oh, Mbarak! 3abali bitgooleen Yousef; Yousef mitzawej!” Jawhara’s mother took a sip of her tea.
“No, no, Mama. Mbarak,” Jawhara let his name play on her lips again; she loved the way it sounded.
“Ee ya7laila Mbarak,” Jawhara’s mother squinted, as if trying to get a better look at her past. “Mo2adab, she7laila.”
“Yeah, Mama. He’s nice,” Jawhara smiled at her mother’s approval, but before she could bask in the good vibes she was getting, Jawhara’s mother proceeded to warn her as all mothers would.
“Be careful; not that he’s a bad guy. But with any guy. Just be careful.”
“Inshallah, Mama,” Jawhara smiled and kissed her mother on the crown of her head, “Don’t worry.”
“Ee don’t worry, 5alti,” Fajer butted in, “I’m looking out for her, too.”
“Wintay ma 3indich jaw?” Jawhara’s mother turned to Fajer, who was happily polishing off another slice of raspberry tea cake. Fajer looked up from her plate nervously, and she nodded, crumbs of cake decorating her smiling lips.
Fajer told Jawhara’s mother little details about Wahab, confiding in her about their happy moments and her fears of being hurt. Jawhara’s mother smiled, listened, and advised Fajer as if she were her own daughter. Fajer hugged Jawhara’s mother and kissed her cheek, grateful to have a maternal figure that she could actually talk to – there was absolutely no way Fajer could talk to her own mother about these things, in fear of being scolded or mistrusted.

Jawhara called Mbarak, her insides tickling with excitement. “Aloo!” she sang into the phone.
“Hala walla, 7abeebti,” Mbarak said cheerfully, elated to hear Jawhara’s voice.
“Two things – you’ll never guess who came over for lunch, and you’ll never ever guess who my mom is friends with.”
“Hmmm? Gooleeli,” Mbarak tapped away on his keyboard, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Awal shay, what are you doing?” Jawhara frowned, plopping herself onto her bed. Fajer was sprawled out on the bedroom floor, reading celebrity gossip sites from Jawhara’s laptop.
“Typing an outline so I know what to study tonight,” Mbarak replied, “Inzain gooleeeeli mino!”
“Ya7lailik! Inzain, the people who came over for lunch were Reem and her mother.”
“Ayshay? Wai3. Inzain, who’s your mom friends with?” Mbarak asked irritably.
“Your mother,” Jawhara said with utter satisfaction, and she waited for a response.
Mbarak’s jaw dropped in surprise. “7elfaaay!!” he exclaimed, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.
“Walla!” Jawhara squealed, throwing her head back into her satiny pillows.
“Wait, are you sure?” a hint of uncertainty crept into Mbarak’s voice.
“Yeah, I think so. Isn’t your mom 7e9a Al-Flani?” Jawhara asked.
“That’s her,” Mbarak beamed proudly at the mention of his mother’s name. His mother was insanely kind and understanding, and Mbarak always leaned on her for support and advice. She always wanted what was best for her sons, even though she had to go out of her way to make them happy. “3ajeeb!”
“I know, 9a7? Small world!” Jawhara smiled.
“Ee walla, small world!” Mbarak agreed. They then affirmed their plans for the night, planning to meet up at Caribou Coffee in the Free Trade Zone. “Tell Fajer to come.”
“Ee, I told her,” Jawhara said, looking over at Fajer and motioning for her to call Wahab.
“OK, 3ayal, inshoofkum hnaak,” Mbarak grinned and said his goodbyes before hanging up.

Fajer frowned at Jawhara, leaning against the edge of her bed. “Shfeech?” Jawhara asked.
“Wahab’s acting weird,” Fajer traced her finger against Jawhara’s blanket.
“Midaah? Shfeeh ba3ad?” Jawhara rolled herself over, facing Fajer.
“Madri, Jooj. He barely answers my messages and when he does, it’s killa one-word one-word. I asked him if he wanted to come tonight and still hasn’t replied,” Fajer rambled.
“Have you tried calling him?” Jawhara offered suggestions, disappointed at the way Wahab was treating her best friend.
“Yeah, he doesn’t pick up. Madri shfeeh,” Fajer sighed, exasperated, “Has Mbarak mentioned anything?”
“No,” Jawhara shook her head, “I can ask him if you want?”
“No, forget it. I don’t wanna seem like a lazga. Kaifa,” Fajer turned away from Jawhara and went back to the laptop, listening to the M7amed 3abdu track playing softly from the speakers. “Nisa 3ahd Il-Mewada Wel-Ti9abi.. 3alamah, Ya 7amama, Huw 3alamah? Wana Wallah Mansa Illi Me’6ali, Wala Ansa Illi ’3arami Min ’3aramaaa!”
Fajer sighed deeply, resting her head on the soft carpet. Her heart ached a little, but she tried to up her pride by a few notches, pushing her phone across the floor until she could no longer reach it.

In his room, Wahab paced back and forth from his work desk to his bed, trying to concentrate in spite of his mother’s yelling and the ruckus his brothers’ children were causing. He checked his phone quickly, skimming over the multitude of missed calls and text messages from Fajer and Mbarak. Frustrated, he threw his phone down and flung his bedroom door open. “Yuma! I’m trying to study! Shfeekum!?” He slammed the door shut again and picked up his phone, dialing Fajer’s number. The phone rang several times before it disconnected, and Fajer never answered. He tried calling again, a wave of guilt washing over him for ignoring her.
Fajer stared at the phone ringing a meter away from her, and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the number of times she’d allow it to ring before she answered Wahab’s phone calls.

+++++ M7amed 3abdu - Ya 7amama +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 24)

2008-12-12T03:02:00.000-08:00

The next day started off unusually for Fajer and Jawhara. When they peered out of their windows expecting to find a luminous sun, they were instead greeted with giant raindrops that splattered from a gloomy grey sky. Jawhara called Fajer up and raved about the weather. “It’s so romantic! I love the rain! Allaaaah, winter is finally here!”
“Ay romantic; ay ba6ee5? This means no more ba7ar, no more tanning, and no more Bnaider,” Fajer complained.
“Min gaaaalich no more Bnaider? A7la shay Bnaider in the winter! Cozy trainings, Uggs, chay 3al fa7am – it’s the best!” Jawhara coaxed. “Oo ba3dain, you never know with Kuwait’s weather. Today she’ll be crying crocodile tears, and tomorrow she’ll burn us all with her sweltering heat.”
“I know,” Fajer laughed half-heartedly, folding her blanket against her stomach.
“Shfeech, Fajoor?” Jawhara sensed that her best friend wasn’t feeling 100 percent.
Fajer smiled at Jawhara’s instinct and sighed. “Madri, Jooj. You know when you know you’re happy and everything’s going well, bes something inside of you tells you it’s not as good as it should be?”
“You mean with Wahab?” Jawhara asked, pouring herself her morning mug of chay 7aleeb. The hot steam swirled up into Jawhara’s nostrils, the sweet scent of cardamom invigorating her senses.
“Yeah,” Fajer nodded. “Sometimes a7is it’s too good to be true; that in a few weeks or months he’s just gonna drift away and be like every other guy we hear girls complain about.”
Jawhara quickly took a sip of the scalding chay, careful not to burn her tongue. “What makes you so sure that that’s gonna happen?”
“I don’t know,” Fajer began, and gave Jawhara a brief of Wahab’s forgetfulness the night before. “Ya3ni he could’ve at least sent a message. That would’ve been nice.”
“Babe, when men are at the diwaniya, they seem to lose all sense of affection. It’s just Kout, food, PlayStation; whatever it is they do there. Don’t take it to heart, walla,” Jawhara tried to comfort her best friend, but deep inside, that very same hurt stung her heart. A7med never spoke to Jawhara while he was in the diwaniya, and sometimes he made obscene remarks and rejected her phone calls, leaving her to worry all night and wonder if she’d done something to disappoint him.
“I’m not upset. I just don’t wanna get shocked by him,” Fajer said, finally kicking off her bed covers and sitting up.
“Inshallah you won’t. And inshallah I won’t either,” said Jawhara. After their usual girly conversations, Fajer and Jawhara hung up, and Jawhara was left alone with her steaming mug of chay and a plateful of cinnamon-dusted darabeel. She took a long satisfying sip of the milk tea and tasted something different. With her mouth pressed tightly shut, she let the rich flavors soak into her tongue. Zesty cardamom, creamy milk, fragrant tea powder.. Saffron? After a short moment of thinking and another small sip of tea, her thoughts were settled; a tiny crimson thread of saffron made it’s way into her mouth with the flood of milk tea, leaving behind an earthy sweetness that she’d longed to taste.
The rain pitter-pattered against the windows of her Qur6uba home, and in the deafening silence, Jawhara called out for Joori. But Rose shimmied into the dining area to inform Jawhara that Joori had gone on a shopping expedition with her mother. Disappointed, Jawhara tapped her fingers against the wooden dining table – she didn’t know whether it was Joori’s absence that disheartened her, or the recap of last night’s confession to Mbarak.

Impulsively, she called him to wish him a good morning. Mbarak’s sleepy voice came through on the other end of the line, and though the thickness of his voice made most of his words incoherent, Jawhara could hear his smile.
“Barooki, goom,” Jawhara pleaded, “It’s almost 11.”
“Kani, bagoom,” Mbarak rolled over in his bed, the flimsy sheets twisting around his abdomen and hips.
“Yalla; 9a79e7 oo call me.”
“Laish; is everything OK?” Mbarak groaned, shaking off the drowsiness.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just want you to wake up,” Jawhara giggled.
“Jojo, ya3ni itga3deeni wana ma 3indi dawam; 7aram 3alaich!” he ran his hand through his short hair.
“7aram ana!” she laughed, “Ma 3indi a7ad! I’m drinking my tea alone!”
“Shga3da takleen?” Mbarak smiled at the thought of his Jawhara drinking her morning tea and having breakfast. For a split second, he imagined being by her side at the dining table and sharing his breakfast and his life with her.
“Chay 7aleeb oo darabeel,” Jawhara replied, dunking a flaky darabeel into her second mug of chay 7aleeb and watching the brown cinnamon create a circular boundary on the surface of the tea around the sweet treat.
“Beees?” Mbarak chuckled, “Mako baith? Gaimar? 3asal?”
“Fee! Walla fee! Bes I don’t eat all of that unless Fajer’s over for breakfast. Ma7ib akel broo7i,” Jawhara confessed.
“3ayal wainhi Fajer 3annich?”
“Tawha ga3da min inoom,” Jawhara said, ”She’s coming over in a bit, bes she’s got a lot of work to do for jam3a before classes start again, so ma ra7 it6awel.”
“Wintay? Ma 3indich shay?” Mbarak asked, remembering that he had two midterms in the coming weeks.
“3indi, bes not as much as Fajoor.”
“Inzain sh3indich ilyoom? Troo7een nadris together somewhere?” Mbarak suggested, hoping she’d say yes.
“I’d love to,” Jawhara beamed. “Let me know wain tabi troo7 oo when, and I’ll be there.”
“You’re on,” Mbarak grinned, rubbing his bare chest with his large palm. “I’ll call you ba3ad shway.”
“OK,” Jawhara agreed before they said their goodbyes and ended their conversation.

The light rain turned into a heavy shower, giving the streets outside deep acoustics. Every flap of palm leaves was heard, along with the splash of car tires against the wet streets. The grey sky darkened even more, and Jawhara basked in the gloomy mood that had taken over Kuwait. Fajer came over in her oversized sweatshirt, leggings and mukluks, carrying a box of Little Treats cupcakes and two bottles of Fuze drinks.
“Little Treaaaats!” Jawhara squealed excitedly, popping open the plastic top of the cupcake tray. “Yum, yum, YUM!”
“They better be ‘yum’; it took me 30 minutes to get them. Il-shewari3 za7ma!” Fajer frowned, plopping herself next to Jawhara on the comfy pale blue couch. Jawhara threw her favorite pink fleece blanket over Fajer’s legs as well, and picked out a chocolate cupcake with a bright green swirl of frosting. A moan of delight buzzed through Jawhara’s lips after she’d taken a bite. “These cupcakes are divine.”
“Adri, I love them! What are we watching?” Fajer turned up the muted volume of the television. Alex Trebek paced in front of three contestants and asked them questions about themselves before the first round of Jeopardy started. “Allahhh! Jeopardy! Sha5bari!”
“I know, 9a7? I love it,” Jawhara smiled and polished off the rest of the chocolate cupcake.
The girls sat together comfortably, fighting the cold that had snuck in the house from under the door. They called out answers to the Jeopardy questions, and exploded into fits of giggles every time the other got the wrong answer after guessing multiple times.
“Mita ibtadreseen?” Jawhara asked Fajer, who was texting Wahab on her phone.
“In an hour or so; laish?” Fajer replied, putting her phone down after the message was sent.
“Mbarak was saying that he wants to go study somewhere in the afternoon.. I was thinking you and Wahab could come too,” Jawhara said, picking up her ringing mobile: her mother was calling. “Aloo.. Hala mama, 9ba7 il5air!”
“9ba7 ilnoor, 7abeebti mama. Shloonich?” Jawhara’s mother spoke into the phone over Joori’s bubbly laughter echoing in the background.
“I’m OK, mama. Fajoor tawha yat 3indi, bnig3ad shway oo then she has to study,” Jawhara reached over for another cupcake.
“Laa! Gooleelha tit’3ada wiyana! 3azma rifeejti 3al ‘3ada oo yimkin tyeeb bint’ha; gilt tig3idoon wiyaha. She’s very nice.”
“Inshallah, mama; I’ll ask her and let you know,” Jawhara licked the sweet creamy frosting off the top of the vanilla cupcake.
“Inzain; please tell Rose to set the table for six people,” Jawhara’s mother smiled. “We’re almost home, bes inmur IKEA shway oo we’ll be back.”
“Inshallah, mama. I love you!” Jawhara sang into the phone.
“I love you, too, 7abeebat mama,” her mother replied, and the line disconnected.
“Shfeeha your mom?” Fajer asked, throwing her head back on the soft throw pillows that were arranged in the snug corner of the couch.
“She says stay for lunch; her friend oo her daughter are coming over oo she wants us to meet them.”
“Alright, let me just call my mom and tell her,” Fajer said as she dialed her mother’s number and told her about her lunch plans.
“Salmay 3alaiha!” Jawhara called out as she walked to the kitchen to tell Rose about the lunch guests.

Mbarak called her to warn her about the slippery streets outside, telling her it’s best not to go out at this time and to wait until the rain stopped pouring. “Shga3da tsaween?”
“Ga3da wiya Fajoor,” Jawhara beamed, “Eating cupcakes and watching Jeopardy.”
“Allahhh, a7ib Jeopardy!” Mbarak grinned, “Inzain, ana baroo7 iljam3iya real quick; bashtiri cham sha’3la.”
“What are you gonna buy?” Jawhara teased, “Deodorant? Laymoon? 5ubiz Libnani?”
Mbarak laughed out loud, grabbing his keys from his bedside table. “Close! I need to buy turkey. And Quaker.”
Jawhara made a sick noise, “Quaker, 3ad? How do you eat that stuff?”
“It’s yummy!” Mbarak tried to convince her, “I have it for breakfast wiya 7aleeb oo raisins.”
“Way, 3alaik bil3afya. Killish not into that,” Jawhara grimaced – she couldn’t stand raisins or Quaker oats, and nothing annoyed her more than the Quaker commercials on Fatafeat where they put Quaker into absolutely everything.
“Ba5aleech itjarbeena,” Mbarak laughed, “You’ll love it.”
“Yi9eer 5air,” Jawhara chuckled. “My mom’s friend oo bint’ha yayeen 3al ‘3ada, ok? I’ll call you once they leave, bes inta 6amenni 3alaik. Send me a message if you need anything. OK?”
“Sounds good; take care 7abeebti,” Mbarak sighed.
“You too, sweetheart.”
“Salmeeli 3al walid wil walda,” Mbarak said playfully. The Silverado’s ignition buzzed in the background, and a multitude of warning beeps sounded off. Tears stung Jawhara’s eyes at the mention of her father, and the awkward silence unsettled Mbarak. “Is everything ok?”
“Mbarak, my dad passed away last year,” Jawhara’s voice quivered as she tried to hold back the tears.
Mbarak’s heart panged and he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “Oh.. Oh, 7abeebti.. I’m so sorry. I really had no idea,” Mbarak stammered, not knowing what to say or how to comfort her. “Allah yir7ama inshallah wiyqamed roo7a iljana.”
“Ameen.. It’s ok,” Jawhara replied with a small voice. “Anyways, I’d better get going. I’ll talk to you later.”

Jawhara fought the sobs that wracked her body, but she couldn’t help buy cry a little. She missed her father – he was everything to her. Before Joori was born, she was ‘daddy’s little girl’, going with him to just about everywhere he could take her. They went to the fish market and he’d taught her how to tell if the fish was fresh and how to bargain for a better price. He would take her to the movies and to the circus, and shower her with gifts every chance he could get. Even when Jawhara was sick, he’d stay home and cancel his daily visit to the diwaniya to be by her side. But the best memories of all were in Bnaider.
Jawhara thought back to the first days when the chalet was bought, and her father would take her out to the site and watch her tumble in the sand and frolic in the sea. Even though the chalet was still brand new and didn’t have any furniture or electronics, Jawhara’s father would drive her out to the bright blue sea and sit on the sand for hours, watching her play until the sun set. That was one of the main reasons why Jawhara had become so attached to Bnaider; she knew with every step and turn, her father’s spirit was there, smiling at her and protecting her.

“Shfeech?” Fajer frowned, her sharp voice interrupting Jawhara’s thoughts.
Jawhara’s head sprang up and she tried miserably to hide the anguish in her eyes. “I just miss my dad.”
“Awww, 7abeebti,” Fajer waddled over and tightly embraced Jawhara. “Allah yir7ama. He’s always with you, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Jawhara whispered into her friend’s shoulder. Her phone beeped with a message and she let go of Fajer’s hug to read it.
Mbarak had sent her a long text: “jawharti 7abeebti plz la tiz3eleen.. im sure its hard bes walla ana a9eerlech eli tabeena ummich ubooch u5ooch kilshay.. smile :* ana wiyach always”
A small smile formed on Jawhara’s lips as she kissed the screen of her mobile. “7abeebi,” she said out loud for the first time in a long time.
“Cuuute!” Fajer cooed. “Yalla, your mom’s here. 5al nig3ad wiyaha.”

Fajer and Jawhara snuggled next to Jawhara’s mother on the couch while Joori played with her Barbie dolls on the living room floor. They watched TV and talked, and Jawhara’s mother lovingly stroked Fajer’s and Jawhara’s hair. Not even an hour passed when the doorbell rang. Jawhara jumped up from her seat and ran upstairs, Fajer following closely behind. “Ta3alay! Wain ray7a?” Jawhara’s mother called out.
“Abadel!” Jawhara called from the top of the stairs. “Your friend is here, Mama, I’m still wearing my pajamas!”
“Lat6awleen!” her mother called back as she walked over to open the door and greet her friend.

Inside Jawhara’s room, Fajer paced around as Jawhara pulled out her favorite Juicy velour training set – it was dusty pink with black and gold graphics on the back of the hoodie and the side of the pant leg. Quickly tousling her honey-brown hair and clipping on her crystal flower studs, Jawhara made her way out of the room and down the stairs. The loud chatter of women filled the foyer, followed by smooches and pleasantries.
Fajer and Jawhara stopped halfway down the stairs in shock, and Jawhara tried her best to keep her jaw from dropping.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 23)

2008-12-09T12:12:00.000-08:00

Hey guys ;* 3eedkum Mbarak (Wala Wahaaab? kaak ;p) oo taqabal Allah 6a3atkum! Hope you all had an amazing holiday (even though it's not over yet!).. Stay safe oo please stay warm even though the weather isn't that cold - I've been sick for the past 3 days oo lay3a chabdi :P Here's your 3eediya! ;* A7ibkummmm jad jad..
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Jawhara smiled uneasily and felt her pulse start to race. Her brain attacked her with thoughts – “Tell him! Be honest with him!” and “Don’t tell him; ra7 t6ee7een min 3aina!”
Mbarak cleared his throat and smiled, “If it’s taking you this long to answer, then it must be a ‘yes’.”
Jawhara lowered her head and took a deep breath, the icy air filling her lungs. She passed the KDD Cocktail juice box between her hands and finally looked up at Mbarak. She saw a warm sparkle in his eyes; how could she not be honest with him?
“Jawhara, shfeech?” Mbarak frowned, waiting for a response.
She tilted her head back and pursed her lips. “Yes, I did. But no one knew about it and I intend to keep it that way,” she shot him a glance.
“Is that what you think of me? Amshi wat7acha feech 3ind ilawadem?” Mbarak said incredulously. Though it was the nature of a lot of his friends, Mbarak was never the one to talk about the girls he knew or the one he was with, in good terms or bad.
“No, but I’m just saying,” Jawhara mumbled. Though she felt uncomfortable about being honest with him, Jawhara felt a great weight being lifted from her shoulders. Mbarak felt her anxiety and scooted next to her, bundling her in his arms.
“Can I know who he was?” he asked quietly, stroking Jawhara’s shoulder.
“No.. Maybe in time you’ll know. And anyways, I wouldn’t really call it 7ub; it was more like a living nightmare,” Jawhara felt tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t tell whether it was her body’s reflex to the cold breeze or if it was her old emotions coming back to haunt her.
“Laish? Shsawa?” Mbarak asked in the most concerned and loving tone Jawhara had ever heard.
She let her guard down, “Kan yikallem 3alay.. I’d always catch him cheating. He was never nice to me oo he’d ignore me for days, oo then mita 6ag ibrasa he’d call me again. When he felt like I did something wrong, kan yisibni. Oo marra min ilmarrat, mad eeda 3alay.”
“WHAT?!” Mbarak let go of Jawhara and jumped off the truck bed and stood in front of her. “Shloon it5alleena yisawi feech chithee?! Mino uhwa 3ashan yisibich oo yimid eeda 3alaich!?”
Jawhara stayed quiet, instantly regretting telling Mbarak about her nightmare with A7med. She couldn’t even look Mbarak in the eye.
“6al3eeni!” Mbarak pulled her chin towards him and glared at her, “Don’t you ever let him come near you again. Fahamtay? Don’t you ever talk about him or bring him up again!!”
The look in Mbarak’s eyes scared Jawhara, and a salty tear threatened to fall from her eyes. Sensing her fear, Mbarak held her close and rocked her in his arms. “I’m sorry Jawharti.. I’m so sorry. I will never do that to you. OK? I promise.. I’m nothing like him.”
“I know,” Jawhara said, her voice quavering, “Please, let’s just change the subject.”
“Ba3ad galbi, I’m sorry,” Mbarak said, still embracing her. “Are you hungry?”
“Killish la2,” Jawhara stifled a giggle, “I think there’s enough food here. Thanks Barooki..”

Mbarak hopped over to the driver’s seat of the truck, leaving Jawhara to munch on Hello Panda biscuits. “Wain raye7?” she called out to him.
In a moment, Mbarak came back and climbed onto the truck bed next to Jawhara. “Listen.. Ehda2,” Mbarak said quietly, kissing Jawhara’s hand.
The quiet air started to fill with soft music and rhythmic drumming. Jawhara listened intently as 3abood 5owaja’s voice floated out from the speakers, singing to Jawhara and Mbarak. “Tw7ashni Winta BeJanbi Washtaglik Lo Ti’3eeb.. Wa7sid 3alaik 7ata Nafsi.. Wa5sha Yemissik ‘3areeb..! Walla Ya A7la 3umri, B3yooni Ma Lik Mitheel.. Tsawi Il-Roo7 Oo Te’3la Oo Tkoon 3anha Badeel..!”

“Ee wallah!” Mbarak grinned, hugging Jawhara close and swaying to the music. A silent tear slipped onto Jawhara’s cheek, but she smiled anyway – it was comforting to her knowing that there was an 3abood 5owaja song for every way she felt. It was even more comforting to her knowing that there was a real man by her side that genuinely wanted to make her happy. She rested her head against Mbarak’s chest and listened to the beautiful song he’d dedicated to her. The sea stretched out in front of them like a neverending path that they were destined to walk through together. A flashing light from a distant ship that was passing by grabbed Jawhara’s attention, and her eyes followed it as it made it’s way across the dark horizon. There was nothing she loved more in the world than peaceful nights such as these, and what better way to experience them than in the safety of Mbarak’s arms?
The chilly gusts of wind swept above and around them, bringing them closer together. Mbarak suddenly felt protective of Jawhara – from her, he’d realized the magnitude of being in an abusive relationship and felt it was his duty to ensure that she never got hurt again; by him or anyone else. He checked the time; it was almost 9:30 PM. “We should head back,” Mbarak rubbed his cold nose against Jawhara’s amber tresses.
“Laish? Do you have something you need to do?” Jawhara inquired, upset that they’d have to end their lovely evening.
“Not really, bes ma abeech tit2a5erain. Plus, the guys are waiting at the diwaniya; ma ri7t ilyoom,” Mbarak smiled.
“Diwaniya, diwaniya! One day I’m gonna blow your diwaniya up!” she teased.
“Afaaa! Laish 3ad?” he giggled.
“So you won’t have to go there all the time and you can spend more time with me,” Jawhara wrinkled her nose, her warm exhaling breath making steam in the frigid air.
“You’ll always have me,” Mbarak cupped his frostbitten hands onto Jawhara’s face, “Diwaniya or no diwaniya. Mafhoom?”
“Mafhoooom,” Jawhara smiled, “Yalla, let’s get going then.”
“7abeebti,” he whispered audibly as he jumped off the truck bed and extended his hand to her. Jawhara slipped her palm into his for support as she slid off the truck and onto the ground. With 3abood 5owaja’s voice still quivering from the Bose speakers, Mbarak and Jawhara sat in their seats and drove a beautiful drive back to the city.

The peaceful darkness of Bnaider faded away and was slowly replaced with taller buildings, plants, and brighter lights. Mbarak watched Jawhara as she rested her sleepy head on the grey leather armrest between them and closed her eyes. “Ta3bana?” he asked over the soft music.
Jawhara nodded with a tiny smile and took a deep breath, feeling the vibration of the Silverado’s engine against her ear. Mbarak rubbed her upper arm with his right hand as they drove in silence, the only sound being 3abood 5owaja’s sharp voice against the cheerful melody.
They arrived to Kuwait City sooner than Jawhara had liked, turning into the curvy main street that led to the Qur6uba co-op. As Mbarak slowed down near Jawhara’s SUV, he nudged her lightly, waking her up so that she could get in her car and drive home. Jawhara stirred, somewhat embarrassed that she’d actually fallen asleep in front of Mbarak. She quietly apologized, smoothing out the creases on her sweater.
“Don’t be sorry, 7ayati,” Mbarak lovingly stroked her head, “Ridday ilbeit oo 7i6ay rasich oo namay; ana asayrich. OK?” Jawhara nodded with a tired smile and climbed out of the Silverado and into her own car.
Almost immediately, Mbarak called. “I’ll stay on the phone with you lain to9leen ilbeit.”
“Thank you, Barook.. Thank you for the amazing night, oo thank you for caring about me,” Jawhara sighed.
“Don’t thank me,” Mbarak replied, staring at her through his tinted window, “I had an amazing time, too.”
“Inshalla doom, moo yoom,” she smiled. As she drove through the backstreets that led to her house, Mbarak followed closely behind, making sure she made it there safely. He waited until she’d parked her car and was safely inside the gates of her home.

In less than a minute’s time, Jawhara had already called Fajer and recapped the events of the night in her croaky sleepy voice. “Fajoor, he asked me itha 7abait wala la2!”
“Oh God.. Please don’t tell me you told him about A7med,” Fajer moaned, “Please.”
“I did,” Jawhara said quickly, feeling a hard twist in her gut, “Was I not supposed to?”
Fajer groaned, “Shrayich, Jooj?” She loved Jawhara to death, but there was the hint of naivety that Jawhara could never seem to get past, and it bothered Fajer to no end.
“I wanted to be honest,” Jawhara tried to defend her stance.
“Kuwaiti guys ma yinfa3 wiyahum honesty. Honest wala moo honest; he’ll use it against you! You never know!” Fajer pushed.
Jawhara twisted the silky tassles on the end of her pillow between her fingers, trying to fight the way she felt. “Yeah, well here’s to hoping he doesn’t,” she sighed, throwing the pillow off the bed.
“Yeah, I hope he doesn’t either,” Fajer concluded as she tucked herself into bed. They continued their usual chatter until the exhaustion finally hit them. Fajer, as always, was the first one to fall asleep.
Jawhara made one last call before she went to sleep; she dialed Mbarak’s number quickly, hoping that he’d pick up and that she’d get to hear his voice before she went to sleep.

Mbarak threw down the last card in his hand, scoring him and his partner an extra few points in their intense game of Kout.
“Nice!” Fahad cried, pounding Mbarak’s fist and scribbling down their final score.
Mbarak’s mobile rested on the plush carpet between him and a player from the other team. Whenever it rang, the mobile would dance furiously in it’s place like a baby crying for attention, but Mbarak would always let it ring till the missed calls piled up – he never interrupted a good game of Kout for any phone call. But thankfully for Jawhara, she was an exception.
The loud ringtone rang over the clamor of the diwaniya, and when Mbarak peered over his knee, Jawhara’s name flashed on and off. He quickly picked up the phone and held it to his ear with his shoulder as he dealt the cards to the other players. “Hala walla,” Mbarak spoke into the phone, not wanting to give away the fact that he was talking to a girl.
“Barooki,” Jawhara said softly, “Ana banam al7een; I’m so sleepy.”
“Inzain,” he spoke gruffly, “Ana adiglik lama a5ale9.”
“Inshalla, bu ilshabab!” Jawhara giggled, imitating Mbarak’s masculine demeanor.
Mbarak laughed and quickly ended the phone call before his friends started to get suspicious, but 3ali, who was at his left, sensed what was going on.

“Mino sa3eedat il-7a’6?” 3ali teased Mbarak while re-ordering his hand of cards.
“Ay sa3eedat il-7a’6, yam3awad; hatha Ya3goub yabeeni aroo7la il-nadi.”
“Nadi al7een?” 3ali raised an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping upon his lips.
“Shdarani 3anna!” Mbarak shrugged, throwing down a card to start a new round of Kout.
“Mmm,” 3ali nodded apprehensively, digging his hand into a bowl of 7ab. He knew Mbarak better than everyone else thought he did, and his uncertainties never failed him. It was not that 3ali liked being nosey; he just didn’t like being lied to, especially since he told Mbarak everything.
By the time they’d finished playing 5 rounds of Kout, it was already 2 AM. Mbarak excused himself and said goodbye to all of his friends and walked out to his car, calling Jawhara on his cell phone. Her sleepy voice filled the other end of the phone, and Mbarak’s stomach flipped at the sound of her angelic mumbles.
“Ana rad ilbeit al7een, Jawharti. Tabeen shay?”
”Salamtik, Barooki,” Jawhara spoke quietly, ”Shway shway bil6ireej, ok?”
“Inshalla ya 3umri; intay namay, ok? Lat6eer ilnooma,” Mbarak smiled as he climbed into the driver’s seat of his car. In the cold darkness of his car, the scent of Jawhara’s exotic perfume lingered, and Mbarak filled his lungs with the traces of Ferragamo’s Incanto Dream.

Fajer stirred from her sleep, realizing that Wahab hadn't called or messaged her in hours. She furiously punched at her phone's keypad. Wahab’s phone beeped with a message from Fajer right before he was about to take a bite out him Subway sandwich. It read: “too busy to call or message? gnite ;r”
Wahab put his sandwich down and quickly walked out of the diwaniya, sitting on the cold marble steps outside the gate. He dialed Fajer’s number and as soon as she picked up, he tried to explain himself. “Fajoor, ana bildiwaniya ya3ni – may9eer kil shway adig oo adiz messages! Fashla jidam rab3i kil shway 6ale3 oo asolef bilphone!”
“Ana ma giltlik nam 3al telephone wiyay, Wahab,” Fajer shot back, twirling the phone charger’s wire around her fingers. “I’m just saying a message would’ve been nice.”
“I’m sorry, bes walla loya hnee!” Wahab sighed, rubbing his arms from the cold.
“Fine. T9be7 3ala 5air,” Fajer replied callously.
“Bitnameen? Shfeech im3a9ba?”
“Moo m3a9ba, Wahabi; bes you’re busy and I’m tired so banam. Ok?”
“3ala ra7tich. Te9ba7een 3ala 5air,” Wahab mumbled, “I’ll call you once I leave.”
“Ok,” Fajer replied, and with that, she hung up and tried to sleep. She tossed and turned in bed, her thoughts clouded with annoyance at the fact that she and Wahab were not on perfect terms. She thought about calling him back, but instead sent him a long-winded text message apologizing for her over-reaction and explaining that she couldn’t sleep knowing he was a little upset with her.
Unexpectedly, Wahab called her right back to let her know he wasn’t upset and that it was just a misunderstanding. His sweet words and kind voice made Fajer forget everything, and as if drugged with joy, Fajer fell into a deep sleep.

Jawhara rolled over in bed, bunching her flat pillow in her arms and trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. But she knew very well that it wasn’t the position that was depriving her of sleep; for the first time in months, A7med was tackling her thoughts again.
She thought of all the wonderful times they’d had together and how he’d begged her for forgiveness when she finally mustered up the strength to leave him. He apologized for the harsh words, the cold neglect, and the inaugural slap that signaled the end of their roller-coaster ride. Tears wet Jawhara's lower eyelashes, ready to roll down her cheeks whenever she remembered the moment in which she realized her ordeal with A7med was truly over – she would never be sure if they were tears of joy, relief, shock, or disappointment, so she decided to roll them all into one giant emotion that explained the way she felt.
But what really ate her up inside was the fact that Mbarak knew – she didn’t know if that was the best for their relationship, but only time would tell. Silently, Jawhara prayed to God that A7med wouldn’t come between her and Mbarak, and that the mention of him tonight was the first and last time he’d ever be brought up again.

+++++ 3abood 5owaja – Min Far7i Ab’3a A6eer (Ehda2 5a9 ;*) +++++

Superior Scribbler Award

2008-12-04T23:21:00.000-08:00

A huuuuge hank you to Jewaira ;* for passing on the Superior Scribbler Award to me. I've always been a huge fan of yours and you've inspired me endlessly. Also along the way I've stumbled on some pretty amazing blogs, and each and every one of you has me hooked!

Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we’ll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

I'd like to pass this award on to:
1. Jewaira
2. Lovestruck Flana
3. Glitter
4. Peony
5. Sham3at Al Jillas

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 22)

2008-11-29T01:35:00.000-08:00

Note to my amazing readers:
I understand that it gets frustrating waiting for a new part, etc.. But I’d appreciate it if you guys kept in mind that there’s more to my life (and I’m sure yours as well) than sitting at a computer and writing posts. In order for me to bring you the best posts, it takes time and inspiration, and lately I’ve had none of either. So it really doesn’t help when some of you (some, not all) are inconsiderate and leave mean-spirited comments. If you guys are having trouble remembering the story, all parts are posted for your reading pleasure and for you to brush yourself up on the past events of the story. And to a certain anonymous commenter, if you start to “lose interest” in my blog, I’m sure there are plenty of other blogs that would love to have you, but I have low tolerance for small-minded haters. That being said, enjoy part 22 ;) I made it extra long for you guys! Love u all :*
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“jawharti meta t9eereen 7alali?”
The crispy popcorn that had entered her mouth rested on her tongue, as she was so taken aback by his message that she forgot to chew. The popcorn pieces melted into soggy white dots between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and at the same time, her heart melted too.
“shino ya3ni meta a9eer 7alalik? ;p im urs!” Jawhara punched the keypad of her mobile, watching the words quickly appear on the screen. After the message was sent, she waited impatiently for a reply, nervously tapping her foot on the mattress while staring at the TV.
Her phone beeped again, startling her. “u know sheno qa9di ;*” – Jawhara smiled to herself, and not being able to think of a satisfactory reply, she sent a message back that simply said “Allah kareem ;)”
Just then, her phone rang; it was Fajer. Jawhara immediately picked up and bombarded her with questions about how her date went.

“Jawharaaaaa waay! Iyannin! We had so much fun!” Fajer exclaimed, catching her breath, “Tha7akna thi7ik oo wayid wayid estanasna!”
“Awww! That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you, babe!” Jawhara grinned, “Did he say anything about the way you looked?”
“Eeee! He said I looked ‘3air,” Fajer giggled, “Whatever that means!”
“It means you looked amazing,” Jawhara beamed proudly.
“Intay ilamazing walla.. Jooooj he got me an iPod!” Fajer said, fumbling through her large purse for the iPod case.
“Ay shay?!” Jawhara’s jaw dropped, “Isn’t it a little too soon for the gift-giving?”
“Bithab6! I told him I couldn’t accept it, but he insisted. Yigool ‘cause he ruined mine,” Fajer explained, “It’s even inscribed.. “The music sounds better with you..””
“Isn’t that from that old song?” Jawhara asked, her hand fishing for what was left of the popcorn.
“Yeah; I love it!” Fajer smiled.
“Did anything happen?” Jawhara raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean by anything?” Fajer frowned, wiping her make-up off with a Johnson’s face wipe. The wet napkin swept the array of colors off of Fajer’s face, and she studied the neutral palette.
“Ya3ni.. A kiss.. Something?” Jawhara hoped the answer would be negative.
“No, no, no. No kisses. Well actually, a kiss, bes it was a quick smooch between my shoulder and neck when we hugged.” Fajer nodded, tossing the Johnson’s wipe in her blue wastebasket.
Jawhara gasped, “Fajeeeer! Anywhere above the nose is fine! Anywhere below the nose is a big no-no!”
“I know, Jooj, bes I didn’t see it coming!” Fajer pouted. She couldn’t help feeling a little upset that her best friend was raining on her parade, but even more so that she’d let Wahab get away with it.
“I understand, bes la t5aleena yit3adda 7dooda,” Jawhara advised Fajer, trying to be as gentle as possible.
“Inshallah..,” Fajer sighed, “What’d you end up doing?”
Jawhara told her about her boring night of MBC 4 show marathons. “Ta3alay trayegay 3indi tomorrow.. Bes come early oo ga3deeni.”
“Cool, I’ll be there at 9,” Fajer smiled, “Tell Rose to make pancakes!”
“Will do, babe. See you tomorrow!”
“’Bye,” Fajer hung up and rolled over on her bed. She thought about calling Wahab, but instead sent him a text message thanking him for the lovely evening and wishing him a good night.

Jawhara, knocked into a deep sleep, couldn’t tell the time of day because of the shutters that had blocked out every bit of sunlight from entering her room. The soft ringtone playing from her mobile and it’s vibration caused her to stir – Mbarak was calling her. Groggily, Jawhara reached over for her phone and answered, her voice thick with sleep.
“Jojo, nayma?” Mbarak’s husky voice wafted into her ear.
“Mmm..,” Jawhara mumbled, rubbing her face into the warm satiny pillow.
“Ba3ad 3umri ridday namay; I’m sorry,” Mbarak said sweetly.
“What time is it?” Jawhara’s voice crackled. She pulled the mobile phone away from her ear and squinted at the screen, looking at the time; it was 4 AM. “Shimga3dik?”
“Kinna ga3deen bidiwaniya in6ale3 movie. Ne6art ilathan oo ri7t a9ali blmasyed illi yam ildiwaniya oo al7een rad ilbeit,” he explained.
Jawhara smiled – she didn’t know what appealed to her more; the fact that he’d called at an ungodly hour to tell her what he was up to, or the fact that he’d left the diwaniya mid-movie to go to pray at the mosque. “Shway shway bildarb, Barooki,” she whispered into the phone.
“Inshallah; intay namay, lat6eer ilnooma.. Adizlich message awal ma o9al ilbeit,” Mbarak assured her before wishing her pleasant dreams.
Jawhara fell back into a dream-fueled sleep, losing herself in awkwardly delightful images where she saw herself flying and then suddenly submerged in a crystal clear ocean.
“Jawhara.. Goomay.. Jooj!” Fajer sat on the ledge of Jawhara’s bed, nudging her blanketed feet. “Bessich noom!”
Jawhara woke up abruptly to find Fajer’s silhouette outlined against the bright light coming from her open bedroom door.

This wasn’t the first time Fajer walked in to find Jawhara oversleeping: at one point during her college years, Jawhara had thought she was clinically depressed because of her diminished appetite and her episodes where she’d burst into tears for no reason. Her emotional roller-coaster included long lazy hours spent curled up in her bed, listening to only the saddest love songs her iTunes playlist could conjure up and soaking her pillow with salty crocodile tears.
Fajer had been extremely worried for Jawhara, wondering what she could do to get her best friend out of her funk – there was only so much their caffeine-strung outings could do for Jawhara. Fajer had even looked into small dosage anti-depressants and their effects, wondering where she could find them, but when she consulted her mother about her plan, it was brutally rebuffed.
It turned out the cause of the depression was Jawhara’s beau at the time, A7med. A7med was a charmer, and he used it to his advantage – the countless times Jawhara caught him cheating and his daily mistreatment caused her to spiral down into nothingness, the only thing keeping her hope alive being the promise of marriage. Jawhara went through the critical struggle at that time in her life, losing a lot of her hair and weight, and looking so tired and sad all the time. Fajer took extreme measures, threatening Jawhara that if she didn’t leave A7med, she would lose their friendship and eventually, lose herself.
And like waking up from a bad dream, the moment Jawhara put her foot down and left A7med put things into perspective for her. Her bond with Fajer became ultimately stronger, she didn’t miss A7med at all, and best of all, her face radiated with such a happy glow that everyone around her noticed. And though it showed so obviously on her face and her health, Jawhara’s relationship with A7med was her best-kept secret.
Fajer prodded Jawhara’s leg again, shaking off the goosebumps that had formed on her skin – she was more than happy that Mbarak had taken A7med’s place in Jawhara’s life.

After what seemed like forever, Fajer watched impatiently as Jawhara rolled herself out of bed, almost tripping over her own feet. “Yalla Jawhara, I’m hungry!”
“Zain, zain! 7annitich Fajoor!” Jawhara stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the yellow lights. She squinted at her reflection in the round mirror and waited for the warm water to flow through the tap, and when it did, she splashed heaping handfuls of water onto her face. The tepid water woke her up; she was always told that cold water was more invigorating, but there was no way she could ever do it. Even in the shower; she remembered when her father would sit at the dining table eating breakfast after his morning shower, and he would make her feel his icy wet hair. “Baba, shloon? It’s too cold!” she’d laugh.
“It’s the best!” her father would exclaim.

Jawhara snapped out of her flashbacks and walked with Fajer down the stairs to the dining table that was loaded with plates of food: stacks of pancakes, plates of omelets, hash browns, ger9 3gaili, and Jawhara’s favorite, za3tar and cheese fa6ayers.
“Who the hell is gonna eat all of this?” Jawhara raised an eyebrow as she pulled out a chair and sat in front of the food mountain.
“I am and you are, too,” Fajer stabbed three blueberry pancakes with her fork and lay them on her plate, drizzling them with Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup. She sawed a stack of triangles off the edge of the almost-perfect circles and took a bite. The warm blueberry compote oozed out of the moist pancake, staining her tongue with a bluish-purple hue and tantalizing her taste buds with a delectably sweet tanginess. Fajer put her fork down and let out a loud sound of appreciation. “These are the best blueberry pancakes I’ve ever had,” she murmured matter-of-factly, slicing another piece.
“Bil3afya,” Jawhara smiled, taking a satisfying sip of her steaming chay 7aleeb. She smiled blissfully as she recounted her daily thoughts about her cup of tea, fascinated at how the taste never got old and how she’d become so accustomed to having it that she’d sometimes drink it at night as well.
“Yi3afeech,” Fajer chewed, and they started their day with their usual chatter about nothing in particular, making plans for the rest of the day before Jawhara’s outing with Mbarak.

Mbarak woke up to Wahab’s personal ringtone blasting into his ear. The loud rhythmic clapping of the samra startled him, and his heart raced as he answered the phone. “Ha, Whayeb,” Mbarak croaked.
“Barook, goom! 6a3 isa3a cham!” Wahab frowned at his best friend’s lack of acknowledgement for time.
“Nayim isa3a 5; shtabi?” he groaned, feeling a throbbing headache start to come on.
“Well, it’s 4.30 PM now.. Yalla, yam3awad; get up oo pray oo lama t5ale9 goolli 3ashan amurrik.”
“Wain binroo7?” Mbarak asked, running his hand over his sleepy face.
“Diwaniya, ba3ad, wain binroo7 ya3ni?” Wahab tapped his pen on his desk. He was trying to finish up as much of his report as he could before heading out for the rest of the day.
“I told Jawhara I’d see her today,” Mbarak remembered, “A5ale9 wayeelkum ildiwaniya.”
“Inzain; yalla goom, bessik noom,” Wahab said.
“Bessik 7anna,” Mbarak replied before they hung up. He hated more than anything to be woken up abruptly – though he’d slept for more than 10 hours, he felt sleep-deprived and the headache wouldn’t go away. “Ya rabbi,” he sighed as he pulled himself out of bed. After he’d washed up and prayed, Mbarak called Jawhara while he was eating his late lunch.

“Shga3d takel?” Jawhara smiled, listening to the chomps and chews on the other end of the phone.
“Gaboo6,” Mbarak giggled. He was the only one from all of his guy friends that liked the doughy dish, and whenever he’d crave it they’d tease him and call him an old lady.
“Inta oo fa9latik! Gaboo6?” Jawhara laughed out loud.
“3ajeeb, walla! La, oo min eed ilwalda?” he bit into a hot dough ball. The sweet-and-savory contents spilled into his mouth; the plump yellow raisins and nutty filling sat securely between Mbarak’s teeth, waiting to be chewed.
“Tislam eedha,” Jawhara smiled. She caught herself from wondering how Mbarak’s mother and father looked, not wanting to let her imagination take her too far away.
“Allah yisalmich. Inzain, mita maw3idna?” Mbarak asked, swallowing the last of his lunch.
“Whenever you’re done, I’ll start getting ready,” Jawhara replied, flipping through a magazine on her bed. Fajer heard her and turned her head around from the bedroom floor and wrung her hands as if to say ‘Yalla! We don’t have time!’
“Get ready then, ana tawni 5ale9,” Mbarak smiled, dabbing a tissue against his content curry-stained lips.
“Inzain; see you in a bit, Barooki,” Jawhara blushed, and when they hung up, Fajer and Jawhara dashed to Jawhara’s closet and flipped through the racks of hangers for something she could wear.

“I wanna wear jeans,” Jawhara complained when Fajer pulled out a flowy blue dress.
“Fine. Pick the jeans, I’ll pick the top; yalla!” Fajer cried. The race was on – both of the girls knew very well that Mbarak took no time at all when getting dressed, and since he lived in Surra, it wouldn’t take him more than 5 minutes to meet Jawhara.
After the endless options Fajer had held out for Jawhara, they both finally agreed on a heather grey cashmere sweater that had puff sleeves and a neat bow tied at the back of the neck. “Rif3ay sha3rich – messy bun,” Fajer suggested when she noticed how Jawhara’s long honey tresses were covering the bow.
“Why?” Jawhara frowned, tousling her own hair for volume.
“7aram, the bow!” Fajer joked, “Don’t forget the earrings.”
“I never forget the earrings,” Jawhara assured her. It was Jawhara’s trademark; she never left the house without a pair of earrings on, even when it was just a simple trip to the baqala. She fished through her collection of earrings for the perfect giant pearls that were dangling from a small golden bow. She hooked them onto her ears and quickly twisted her hair up into a messy bun. Jawhara had a unique way of putting her hair up in a messy bun, and it always made her look like a Grecian goddess.
Fajer went ahead and dabbed make-up onto Jawhara’s pouty face. Her eyes were shaded into a very subtle dark grey tone, and her lips were glossed over with her latest addition to her Chanel lipstick collection, #40. The light raspberry tint accentuated Jawhara’s naturally flushed cheeks, and gave her an over-all elegant demeanor.
“Mashallah, Jooj; you look beautiful,” Fajer beamed proudly at her creation.
“Thank you, 7abeebti Fajoor; I don’t know where I’d be without you, walla,” Jawhara thanked her best friend and took one last glance in the full-length mirror before calling Mbarak.
They planned to meet at the Qur6uba co-op, and just as Jawhara expected, he was there in three minutes time. His black Silverado gleamed under the bright white lights of the parking lot, and Mbarak flashed his headlights once at Jawhara, signaling for her to ride with him.
Jawhara looked around the parking lot, scoping the area for any familiar cars; thankfully, there were none. Just as Mbarak had instructed her to do, she quickly opened the door of her SUV and dashed into Mbarak’s truck before any soul could see her. “Lat6awleeeen tig3ideen itdawreen jan6itich oo t3adleen mikyajich madri shitsaween!” he’d warned earlier.

While she settled herself in the passenger seat, she looked Mbarak over, noticing his clothes – that was usually the first thing she noticed about a guy. To her delight, he was dressed casually, wearing dark grey fleece training pants and a hooded Polo sweater. The car reeked of YSL L’Homme, and Jawhara inhaled the heavenly manly scent, letting it fill her chest cavity.
“Jawharti..,” Mbarak whispered audibly, dazzled by her appearance. He picked her soft hand up and brought it closer to his moist lips, kissing the back of her hand as well as her fingers. “You look so gorgeous.”
Jawhara lowered her blushing face and a wisp of hair let itself fall freely in her face. She tucked it back into her hair and thanked Mbarak for his flattery.
Not letting go of her hand, Mbarak put his car in reverse and drove out of the Qur6uba co-op’s parking lot.
Jawhara watched from the heavily tinted window as the cars drove past them, oblivious to their presence. Jawhara felt like she was on top of the world – Mbarak stroked her ego as well as the length of her back, complimenting her every chance he could get. He wanted so badly hold her close, but he knew that he’d most likely swerve left and right because of her overwhelmingly sweet aroma.
They talked and laughed as Mbarak drove her down the 5th ring road and onto the Fahaheel Expressway. “Where are we going?” Jawhara asked with curiosity.
“Shda3wa ma dallaitay il6ireej?” Mbarak smiled his shiny white smile, his adorable dimple appearing.
“Imbala; this is 6ireej ilshalehat,” Jawhara nodded as they passed the oil refineries.
“OK, then,” Mbarak grinned.
Jawhara stared longingly out the tinted window at the massive oil refineries and towers. They were speckled with tiny white and orange lights, and one who didn’t know any better would’ve thought it was another metropolis in Kuwait. “When I was younger, everytime I’d drive out to the chalet with my dad, I’d point to this place and call it New York City,” Jawhara reminisced, “Even the flames look like the one on the Statue of Liberty.”
“Ee 9a7!” Mbarak smiled as he stared out the window towards the sparkling lights. “I love the smell of this place.” Mbarak rolled down the window a few inches and the thick scent of kerosene filled the car. Jawhara took a deep breath and relished the fumes that were mixed with the salty stench of the sea – they were getting closer to Bnaider.

They zoomed past Jlai3a and reached the rickety turns that led to Bnaider, but instead of going to the chalet, Mbarak stayed on the sandy side of the road. The chalets were lit, but there were no cars in sight – everyone was home for the remainder of the week.
“Ma giltli where we’re going?” Jawhara inquired, since they’d already driven past Jawhara’s and Mbarak’s chalet.
“We’re almost there; 6awlay balich,” Mbarak laughed. They turned into a dark patch of land that was situated between two abandoned chalets; there were no street lights or any sort of lamp post that illuminated the area. Jawhara felt uneasy as Mbarak parked; she didn’t know what to expect.
“Shino hatha?” Jawhara peered out the window and saw two rusty goal posts at both ends of the plot of land. Mbarak left the car running and told Jawhara to follow him.

The nippy air stung Jawhara’s cheeks, flushing them even more. She felt her nose turn pink as she rubbed her arms for warmth. Mbarak wrapped his arms around her, the thick fleece of his sweater warming Jawhara through. “Joojti bardana?” he whispered in her ear, his hot minty breath contrasting with the stinging cold air. A chill shot down Jawhara’s spine and she nodded, burying her head into his sweatshirt.
“Why are we here?” Jawhara wondered aloud, her voice muffled by Mbarak’s thick sweater.
“Because you missed this,” he smiled, kissing the side of her head. “Ta3alay gi3day.” He led her to the bed of the truck which he’d opened and motioned for her to sit.
“It’s too cold!” Jawhara cried, feeling the damp iciness of the truck bed seeping through her jeans.
“Here,” Mbarak pulled a Mickey Mouse throw blanket out from the truck’s storage compartment. He folded a part of it under Jawhara and let her wrap her shivering body with the rest.
“Mickey Mouse?” she laughed out loud, sniffling her nose, “Killish moo layig!”
“Laish?” Mbarak chuckled, “I love this blanket! Kil ma nroo7 ilbar I take it with me. I’ve had it since I was a kid. 7adda yidaffi!”
“You’re so cute, walla,” Jawhara smiled as she tucked the ends of the blanket around her.
Mbarak wrapped his arms around her once again, adding to the fuzzy warmth of the throw blanket. “Intay ilcute, walla.. Inzain, look up.”
Jawhara craned her neck upwards and gasped at the magnificent sight.

The sapphire sky was filled with thousands of clustered stars, some bright and twinkling, and some less noticeable. Shining among the stars was a pink moon, something she rarely got to witness. There was not a single grey cloud in the sky to take away from it’s spectacular beauty, and the soft sound of the distant crashing waves only added to the serene wonder.
“Wow,” Jawhara smiled, resting her lifted head on Mbarak’s shoulder. He rested his head against hers and they enjoyed the calm that could only be found in Bnaider. From the Silverado’s radio, 3abood 5owaja serenaded them as he always did. “Lo Marra Saifon Bainana, Lam Nakon Na3lem Hal Ajra Dammi Am Damak? Sal Il-Duja Kam Raaagani Najmuho Lama 7aka Mabsamaho Mabsamak!”
”Allaaaah!” Jawhara sighed at the poetic words.
“Ee wallah,” Mbarak agreed. They spent the rest of the evening under the clear night sky, eating snacks and drinking sugarfree Red Bull, and laughing and talking about the most random and exciting topics.
Jawhara felt so at ease with Mbarak; he was incredibly sweet and romantic, and best of all, he had a sense of humor that surpassed all of his amazing qualities. She knew that she could count on him if she needed a shoulder to cry on or someone to talk to about anything that crossed her mind. She smiled blissfully at the easy-going course their date was taking.
Mbarak turned to Jawhara, a grave expression painting his face. He took a bite out of his Flake bar, feeling the milky chocolate melt in his mouth. “Inzain, I have a serious question.”
“Shoot,” Jawhara asked, her stomach doing a little flip.
“Abeech itjawbeeni ib9ara7a,” Mbarak raised his eyebrows, rubbing Jawhara’s pink cheek with his thumb.
“Inta is2al awal!” Jawhara smiled, scared of what was to come.
Mbarak took a deep breath and asked the question Jawhara dreaded the most – “Intay 7abbaitay min gabel?”

+++++ 3abood 5owaja - A'6naytani Bil-Hajr +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 21)

2008-11-22T03:26:00.000-08:00

Jawhara had called Fajer up to tell her about the flowers Mbarak had sent, and in turn, Fajer told her that Wahab had asked to see her later on that night.
“We have to get you glammed up,” Jawhara smiled devilishly.
“Laa, Jojo; I don’t want to look overdressed,” Fajer begged, “Then he’ll start thinking I’m trying too hard.”
“Well, aren’t you?” Jawhara bit into the soggy darabeel, savoring the cinnamon and sugar flakes on her tongue.
“Not really, no,” Fajer rolled her eyes, “I wanna look casual.”
“Casual ya3ni shloon?” Jawhara chewed, tucking her long chocolatey hair behind her ear.
“Ya3ni,” Fajer mumbled, “I don’t know.”
“Inzain, we’ll see later on today. What time’s your date?” Jawhara licked the remaining cinnamon off her lips.
“Don’t call it that,” Fajer blushed, tapping her fingers on her desk.
“Ha 3ayal! Your appointment? Your business meeting?” Jawhara laughed, “Fajoor, you have to loosen up.”
“I am loose,” Fajer stated, slumping her shoulders as if to emphasize her point.
“No, you’re not. Bayeelich in a few,” Jawhara said, taking the last sip of her tea. She was on her third mug, and she stared at the silvery flask trying to decide whether she wanted another cup or not. She decided against it and placed her saucer over the top of the empty mug.
“’Kay,” Fajer smiled, and they hung up.

In no later than 20 minutes, Jawhara had already washed up, gotten dressed, and arrived at Fajer’s home. She quickly kissed Fajer’s mother on the crown of her head as if she were her own mother, and bolted up the stairs into Fajer’s room.
Fajer was sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of her unmade bed. She had her laptop by her side, listening to M7amed 3abdu jalsat while rummaging through a stack of tops that she’d taken out of her closet. “No.. No.. No..,” she mumbled to herself, not even noticing that Jawhara had walked in.
“’Hi’ would be nice,” Jawhara giggled as she sat next to Fajer and sorted through the ‘No’ pile.
“7abeebti! I’m so sorry,” Fajer said absentmindedly, leaning over to hug Jawhara with one arm.
“What’s wrong with this top?” Jawhara held up a loose-fitting white shirt with silver tinsel laced through the fabric.
“Everything,” Fajer made a face and threw more shirts into the ‘No’ pile.
“Is there a ‘Yes’ pile anywhere?” Jawhara looked around jokingly.
“Not yet; sa3deeni Jooj, I’m so nervous,’ Fajer whined, turning up the volume of the music coming from her laptop. “Sega Allah Bil-3umur Laila! Thahar Fee 9afwaha Badrin, Gumarha Wajhik Il-Fattan! Alaaa, Lait Il-Fajer Ma Baaan!”
“A5aiiiih 3alaik, ya Bu Noora,” Jawhara sighed, swaying her head from side to side to the upbeat melody.
“Ee wallah!” Fajer smiled, somewhat relaxed, “What about this?” she held up a ruffle-collared navy plaid shirt.
“You know, that’s actually really cute ma3a enni not a fan of plaid,” Jawhara nodded her head approvingly.
“5ala9 then; this,” Fajer concluded, tossing the shirt onto her bed, “With jeans and nice shoes oo 5al ya7mid rabba!” They both laughed and let the day roll by until it was time for Fajer’s date.

Wahab had eaten lunch in a hurry, wanting to give himself enough time to get some rest and get dressed before he saw Fajer. Anxiety was eating him up inside – he wanted so badly to impress Fajer, and he hoped that he could make the evening just as romantic as it was in the chalet.
Night fell sooner than Wahab had expected. A chilly breeze swirled outside, pressing against his window and cooling off the glass. Wahab placed his warm hand against the window, expecting the iciness of the windowpane to stop his hands from getting clammy.
His phone rang, startling him from his daze; it was Fajer. “Aloo?” he stammered.
“Ha Wahabi, are you ready?” Fajer asked as casually as she could trying to cloak the nervousness in her voice.
“Ee, ka, bes digeega wa6la3,” Wahab felt his face get hot. He loved it when she called him ‘Wahabi’ – he was hers.
“Okay..,” Fajer murmured, puckering her lips at Jawhara, “Wain nitlaga?”
“Ummm.. Madri,” Wahab felt like an idiot. How could he not know where they should meet? “7adeeqat Il-Nuzha?”
Fajer giggled timidly, wondering what ever came over him to suggest such a place. Still, it was a quiet and secluded area where they could talk at ease, so she quietly approved.
Jawhara worked overtime to make Fajer look special. Her usually curly mane was tamed into long honey-brown locks and then curled with a big-barreled curling iron. In addition to the soft black eye make-up decorating Fajer’s almond-shaped eyes, a sharp wine colored gloss brought out her full lips. With the ruffled plaid shirt, jeans, and strappy heels, Fajer looked like a star.
“You look stunning,” Jawhara beamed as Fajer took a long look in the mirror.
“Whoa,” Fajer gasped, “Isn’t the gloss a little too dark?”
“5aleeh oo ya wailich itha jisteeh,” Jawhara warned, looking into the mirror over Fajer’s shoulder, “You ready?”
“Yep,” Fajer took a deep breath and exhaled, picking up her phone to dial Wahab’s number.

As Wahab walked out of the house and into the garden, the overpowering smell of the ful plants swirled around him. Drawn to their beauty, he walked over to the plant and searched for the largest flower in the clusters of ivory and pearl. When he found the perfect one, he plucked it delicately, making sure there was a long enough stem so that the plant wouldn’t shrivel and brown as quickly as it normally would.
He drove his Lexus jeep as fast as he could, maneuvering through traffic and trying not to crash over high speed bumps until he reached Nuzha’s park. He saw Fajer’s BMW parked under a large tree on the parking slope, and he pulled in right next to her. Wahab honked the horn so that she’d acknowledge his presence, and in a second, Fajer whipped her head around to look at him.
Wahab’s smile radiated from his slightly tinted window, and through the glass, Fajer saw him beckon for her to come and sit in his car. She immediately called him, and when he picked up, she asked, “I thought we were going for a walk?”
“We are, bes ba36eech shay,” Wahab smiled, “Ta3alay.”
“Yalla kani,” Fajer unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door of her shiny black car.

Fajer uneasily let herself into Wahab’s car, turning her head left and right to make sure no one saw her climb in. When she slammed the door shut and looked at Wahab, he was staring at her, awestruck.
“Shfeek?” Fajer suppressed a grin, turning her body to face him.
“Shaklich ‘3air, Fajoor.. You look so beautiful,” Wahab said softly, reaching out to hold her hand.
“9ij?” Fajer slipped her hand into his and lowered her blushing face.
He lifted her chin up with his other hand and looked into her eyes, “Latnazleen rasich; 5al ashoofich!”
“Sorry,” Fajer smiled, biting her lower lip and tasting the fruity red gloss that Jawhara had so carefully applied earlier. She ran her tongue over her teeth discreetly, hoping to lick away any bits of gloss that may have smudged on her teeth.
“Here,” Wahab awkwardly reached out and tucked the fragrant ful flower behind Fajer’s ear. “It’s from our garden,” Wahab chuckled, “It reminded me of you.”
“Awww! Wahabi!” Fajer’s face reddened, “Shmi3na?”
“Because they’re beautiful like you.”
“Waaay Wahab.. Thank you.. I’ll press it when I get home,” Fajer tightened her grip around Wahab’s hand, “Inzain yalla, let’s go.”
“La7tha,” Wahab stopped her from reaching for the door, “I got you something else.” He pulled out the small gift-wrapped box from his glove compartment and handed it to Fajer.
“What is this?” Fajer crumpled her brow.
“Open it,” Wahab urged, a smile spreading across his face.
Fajer looked at him, curiously raising an eyebrow. She gingerly picked at the neatly wrapped package only to reveal a clear plastic case with an electric blue iPod Nano sitting in it. “Wahab!” Fajer cried, embarrassed.
“Shinooo?” Wahab smiled, rubbing Fajer’s upper arm.
“La2, La2; I can’t accept this,” she shook her head, holding the iPod out to him.
“Mo bkaifich,” Wahab gently pushed her hand away, “I ruined yours so it’s only fair. Yalla 3ad!”
“Ee, bes laish?!” Fajer felt so discomfited, but at the same time she wanted so badly to fling her arms around his neck. She leaned over to hug him and he planted a soft kiss on the curve of her neck. A warm quiver shot down her back and as much as she wanted to pull away, she relinquished and let herself enjoy the fuzzy feeling that the beginning of a new love brings.
“Inzain, open it,” Wahab pressed, slowly pulling away from Fajer’s comfortable hold.
She sighed deeply and flipped open the clear lid of the iPod case and eased the iPod Nano out of it’s clasp. She turned the iPod over with her palm, and the bright neon overhead lights of Nuzha’s park clarified the metallic engraving. “The music sounds better with you..,” Fajer read aloud, “Wahab, this is so sweet. I love it.”
“9ij? Ashwa..,” Wahab cupped her hands in his palms and brought them to his moist lips.
“Thank you, min 9ijji,” Fajer smiled from ear to ear.
“Tistahlain akthar,” Wahab whispered, his warm minty breath lacing her fingers.
Not knowing how to reply to his sweet sayings, Fajer eased the tension by suggesting they go for the walk he’d promised. She tucked her new iPod into her purse and they both got out of Wahab’s jeep. Wahab quickly slid over to Fajer’s side and put his arm around her shoulder, guiding her along with his step and shielding her from the harsh night gust.

“Joojti wainhi?” Mbarak sang into the phone over the roar of his car’s engine.
“Mino, Salem?” Jawhara joked, “La la7tha, la7tha. This is 6alal. 7amad?”
“7ilfay,” Mbarak growled.
“I’m kidding, Barooki,” she laughed out loud, “I’m at home.. 7addi bored. Wainik?”
“Going to the diwaniya,” he sighed, letting out a small laugh. He took a long drag of his cigarette, trapping the musty smoke in his mouth before exhaling.
“5al ne6la3!” Jawhara offered, turning down the volume of the TV. She tried to read the Arabic subtitles flashing on the screen, but she decided Desperate Housewives was much more interesting in English.
“Wain ni6la3, Jojo; shayfa isa3a cham al7een? 5aleeha bacher,” Mbarak promised, “Bacher intay 7aggi.”
“Oh, so ya3ni bes bacher ana 7aggik?” Jawhara teased.
“Intay kilyoom 7aggi,” Mbarak’s voice softened. He felt the urge to drive up to her house and scoop her up in his arms – he was starting to miss her.
“5osh,” Jawhara smiled smugly, “Winta kilyoom 7aggi muggi.”
“7aggi muggi,” Mbarak laughed out loud, “Sha5bari, min wain 6ala3teeha!”
“Adri 9a7? I like saying it.”
“I like it when you say it.. Inzain Jawharti, ana we9alt ildiwaniya. A6la3 wadig ok? Tabeen shay?” Mbarak asked his usual questions.
“Salamat 3umrik; take care,” Jawhara replied, and they hung up.

Jawhara slumped back onto her propped up pillows and turned up the volume. She watched intently as Gabrielle ran her small hands across the lengths of John’s bare back. Shoving fistfuls of buttered popcorn into her mouth, she relished the salty sweetness of the fluffy snack and imagined that one day, she’ll be married to her knight in shining armor and she’d get to love him just as well as Gabrielle and John – No.. Better.
Her phone beeped with a message from Mbarak, and she picked it up to read four small words gracing the white screen.

+++++ M7amed 3abdu - Maw3ed Il-A7bab +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 20)

2008-11-17T03:52:00.000-08:00

Jawhara tossed and turned in bed, wondering what was bothering Mbarak. She called him knowing that he was asleep, hoping he wouldn’t mind a little chat. Mbarak answered after the second ring, and his voice thick with sleep came through the speaker. “Shfeech, Jojo?”
“I can’t sleep,” she mumbled, “Gooli what’s wrong?”
Mbarak rolled onto his back and put his arm behind his head. The moonlight shone through his flimsy curtains, leaving faint white patterns on his bed sheets. He took a deep breath, frantically trying to gather his thoughts and find a way to tell Jawhara what had happened. “Well, remember Reem?” he began.
“Yes..,” Jawhara replied quietly, trying not to let Mbarak hear her heavy breathing.
“Well, it turns out her mom is a friend of my mom’s.. Min ziman.. Oo ams billail she walked over to me oo invited me to lunch..” Mbarak paused, waiting for some kind of response from Jawhara.
“And..?” Jawhara asked, her face prickling with angry heat.
“And I went, but I left before lunch was over because I heard them talking while I was in the bathroom,” Mbarak said in one long-winded breath. He buried his head deeper into his lumpy pillow waiting for a real response, but the stark silence on the other end of the line spoke worlds. “Jawharti?” he cleared his throat.
“Mbarak,” Jawhara began through gritted teeth.
“Joojti, I’m sorry; walla I am,” Mbarak pleaded pathetically, “I couldn’t turn her down because she’s my mom’s friend, bes walla I didn’t wanna be there. Walla.”
“Mbarak,” Jawhara repeated, her nostrils flaring in disappointment. She kicked her hot duvet off, letting the air condition cool her body down.
Mbarak closed his eyes in dismay; he hated when people called him by his name like that. “Jawhara, I’m sorry..,” he sighed, “Arjooch la tiz3ileen minni.. I didn’t wanna upset you, bes I figured you’d find out either way so it would be best if I was honest with you and told you.”
A long silence followed by heavy breathing echoed through the phone. Jawhara frowned and bit her dry lip, trying to figure out how to reply without letting him off the hook so easily. She was glad he was honest with her, but it still hurt.
“I appreciate your honesty,” she finally spoke, “But I would’ve appreciated it more if you told me once it happened."
Mbarak’s throat dried up, “I know, Jawharti.. I’m sorry, walla.”
“Inzain, I’ll talk to you later, Mbarak,” Jawhara said sternly, “T9be7 3ala 5air.”
Not knowing how to reply or beg for more time to explain, he wished her the same and hung up. He couldn’t help but send her a text message: “jawharti plz.. 7aggech 3alay wallaaaa a6eg ildenya bl6ofa wala enech tz3eleen meni!”
Jawhara’s phone beeped with a text message alert, and when she read Mbarak’s message, tears stung her eyes. “Yeah, right,” she said out loud to no one in particular. Sighing deeply, she switched off her mobile phone, recited her mu3awethat and went to sleep.

The next morning was a drag for Fajer, Wahab, Jawhara, and Mbarak.
Mbarak called Wahab first thing in the morning to tell him that he’d told Jawhara and explained the way she reacted.
Wahab groaned, tangling his legs in his sky blue bed sheets. “Barook, ana giltlik latgoolaha,” he took a deep breath and tried to wake himself up from his groggy sleep.
“I had to, Whayeb, yalla 3ad!” Mbarak rubbed his shaved head, “Itha min awalha ba5esh 3alaiha then it’s just gonna go downhill.”
“I guess,” Wahab hugged his pillow against his bare chest. “Yalla ma 3alaih.. She’ll get over it, bes inta fich 3anha shway 5alha et6e5. Shbitsawi?”
“Madri. Bag3ad wiya ahali shway.. Inta shbitsawi?”
“Ta3al wiyay Avenues,” Wahab offered.
“Sh3indik hnaak?” Mbarak asked, propping his head up on one elbow.
“Madri, nitmasha,” Wahab replied, slowly kicking his bed sheets away from his body. The cold air in his room swept against his body, sending a chill up his spine.
“Foga. Amurrik ana,” Mbarak said, checking the time, “Aqal min sa3a wakoon 3indik.”
“Lat6awel Barook,” Wahab pleaded, “Mali 5ilg 3awar ras min il9ib7.” He knew that in no time his parents would start the early-morning routine of nagging him about schoolwork and when-are-you-going-to-take-your-sister or how-many-times-have-I-told-you.
“Inshalla,” Mbarak wrinkled his nose, and they both hung up and jumped out of bed to get ready for their outing.

Jawhara woke up with a weight on her chest. She sighed deeply, hoping that the heavy feeling would subside, but it didn’t. She turned her phone back on – something she wasn’t used to doing since she almost never turned her phone off for any reason, especially when she was upset. To Jawhara’s satisfaction, MissU had sent her at least 4 messages alerting her that Mbarak had called her while her phone was off, and of course, a series of apologetic messages from him. Jawhara pursed her lips and was about to call Fajer, thinking about telling her about the incident last night. It wasn’t Jawhara’s usual way of handling things; she knew when to keep things private, and relationship problems were something she knew not to share with her best friend. It’s not that Jawhara didn’t trust Fajer so much – they trusted each other with their lives – but it was the fact that it would make her relationship with Mbarak less exclusive if everyone was involved. Besides, she needed to learn how to handle these situations alone, no matter how badly she needed advice.
Instead, Jawhara shoved her phone into the kangaroo pockets of her sweater and walked into the bathroom to wash up for prayers. After she’d prayed, she felt the weight lifted off her chest as she repeated, “La Elaha Illa Allah, M7amad Rasool Allah.”

As she stepped out of her room, her younger sister Joori (who was only 4) ran up to her and hugged her thigh as she would every morning. “Happy Birthday, Jawhara!” Joori giggled in her high-pitched voice.
“Joori, it’s not my birthday,” Jawhara laughed and tousled her baby sister’s hair. Sometimes she felt the true blessing of having a younger sister; Joori was annoying sometimes, and a “Kanana” as her mother put it, but it was times like these where Jawhara was so glad to have a bundle of joy to cheer her up when she needed it.
“Yes, it is!” Joori picked up Jawhara’s hand and kissed it as they walked down the stairs to the dining area, “Princess Jawhara!”
“Intay ilprincess, walla,” Jawhara grinned and picked her baby sister up and carried her down the stairs. Joori’s shrill giggles echoed through the house until they reached the dining area. The stunning morning light shone through the windows, illuminating every room perfectly. Jawhara smiled at the beautiful day taking course outside until a gorgeous arrangement of flowers caught her eye.
Joori grabbed Jawhara’s hand again, led her to them, and repeated, “Happy Birthday, Princess Jawhara!”
Jawhara laughed and shook her head, eyeing the magnificent Calla lilies – her favorite flower – which were surrounded by fragrant jasmines and white roses. A card was neatly tucked into a plastic prong, and curiosity got the best of Jawhara. She opened it to find a message written in the neatest handwriting:
9aba7 ilward, Jawharti..
Hope your day is as beautiful as these flowers :*
Yours,
Barookich

Jawhara laughed out loud in happiness and shock and surprise all mixed together – ‘What a lovely 7araka, but how the hell did he get my address?’ Jawhara wondered. “Awwww!” she sang out loud.
“Who are they from?” Joori asked, trying to catch a look at the card in Jawhara’s hand.
“From Fajer,” Jawhara replied, tucking the card into the pocket of her sweater and pulling out her phone. She dialed Mbarak’s number and he picked up before the first ring even ended.
“Jojo!” he exclaimed, the excitement in his voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you for the beautiful flowers, awal shay,” Jawhara smiled.
“Tistahlain wurood ildinya,” Mbarak sighed, his heart racing.
“Thank you.. Oo thani shay, how did you get my address?” Jawhara frowned playfully, pulling out a chair at the dining table and pouring herself a mug of chay 7aleeb.
“Ra7 tithbe7eeni, bes I remembered your license plate number and I made a few calls,” Mbarak explained guiltily.
“Hey!” she cried, trying not to laugh, “You stalker!”
“Shasawi ba3ad? Shloon anam wintay mo ra’6ya 3alay?” Mbarak smiled.
“Well, you made your point,” Jawhara bit her lip while stirring the sugar lumps into her tea.
“Does that mean we’re good?” Mbarak asked hopefully.
“Good oo bes?” Jawhara looked at the flowers gracing the table, “You scored major brownie points with me. Calla lilies are my favorite kind of flower."
“Ashwa..,” Mbarak sighed.
“Wainik?” Jawhara asked, hearing the sound of his car’s engine in the background.
“Going to pick Whayeb up oo binroo7 Avenues; madri shino yabi min hnak.”
“Okay, have fun,” Jawhara took a sip of the hot tea. It gushed down her throat, leaving the sweet taste of cardamom and sugar to linger on her tongue. There was nothing she loved more than her morning tea.
“Inshallah; you too Joojti,” Mbarak grinned into the phone, and they both said their good-byes and take-cares before hanging up.

Wahab raced down the stairs when he heard Mbarak honk the horn. His mother stopped him right before he was about to open the door to leave. “Wain 3ala Allah?” Um Wahab asked.
Wahab kissed the crown of her head and told her he was going with Mbarak to the Avenues.
“Wilderasa?” she called out, irritated.
“Ba3dain, yuma,” Wahab opened the door and quickly rushed out before his mother could pester him about his studies. He climbed into the passenger seat of Mbarak’s Silverado and lit a cigarette as soon as they drove off.
The guys puffed on their cigarettes and listened to 3abood 5owaja in silence. “Ya Zeenaha Ayamah Oo Ma7la Leyaleeeh Yoom Ashragat Shams Il-Hana Fee Semaaaya! Sha3rah 3ala Katfiii Oo Kaffi Bayadeeh, Yiraded Al7aaani Weyesma3 ‘3enaaaya!”
“A5aiiiih!” Wahab sighed as he tapped his palm against the ledge of the open window. The cool breeze poured into the car, lacing itself into the thick cigarette smoke. To Mbarak and Wahab, these drives were just as pleasurable as sitting by the sea; the only element that was missing was the invigorating scent of the salty sea. They both sang along to the music, something which Nawaf and 3ammar saw as a sin because according to them, no one could attempt to sing 3abood 5owaja’s songs but 3abood 5owaja himself.
When they reached the Avenues, they parked in no time and strolled into the mall. They loved walking around malls when they were empty; the calming silence filling the wide walkways was always more enjoyable than the busy afternoons of pushing people to get through to the shops.

Wahab motioned for Mbarak to follow him into iCity. The colorful iPods and laptops decorated the shelves, making it hard for Wahab to decide which iPod he wanted to get Fajer; there were so many styles and colors with different capacities. He remembered Fajer’s iPod – a pink 4th generation Nano. He settle for a similar one, but he chose a striking sapphire blue color to remind her of the sea. As he paid for the iPod, the sales clerk informed him of the free engraving promotion – Wahab could engrave just about anything he wanted on the back of the iPod. He figured it would give the gift a nice personal touch, so he agreed. Mbarak helped him come up with a catchy phrase to put on the back of the iPod, and in a matter of ten minutes, the engraving was done and the guys went on their way to do a little more shopping before the mall became crowded.

+++++ 3abood 5owaja - Roo7i Fedaak (Ehda2 5a9 ;*) +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 19)

2008-11-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

Mbarak washed his hands in the marble sink and splashed his face with cold water. He patted his face dry with a hand towel, and when he brought his face up to look at himself in the mirror, he heard muffled sounds coming from the dining room.
He pressed his ear gently against the crack of the door and strained to hear the inaudible voices of Huda and Reem. All he could hear was a loud “La2!” and fragments of words. He frowned and held his breath only to hear the words “Bint”, “Hara”, and “Rifeej”. Mbarak furiously twisted the hand towel around his fingers and threw it into the small straw basket. ‘It’s one thing to talk about me, but to talk about Jawhara is completely unnecessary!’ he thought to himself.
He pulled down the brass door handle and stormed into the dining room where Reem and Huda had suddenly shut up, forks in mid-air.
“Ana mashi,” Mbarak snapped.
Huda stood up from her seat, the shock of possibly having been found out settling in her chest. “Wain, 7abeebi? Ma kalait! Reem msawya 5osh 7ilo” she lied, trying to sweeten the tone of her voice as much as she could.
Mbarak put his hand up in protest. “Akramkum Allah,” he said quietly before he turned around and headed out the door.

Reem’s jaw dropped in utter shock as she watched Mbarak walk out the door and slam it behind him. Her mother turned to her and whispered, “T’hagain sima3?”
“Laa?!” Reem dropped her fork on the table angrily, “Shraayich??”
“Ga9ray 7issich,” Huda warned sternly, pushing herself away from the table. She stood up and paced to the living room where she finally sat down on the plush creamy sofa.
Reem followed her mother, flailing her hands every which way and cursing Jawhara.
“Shasawi feehum ya3ni?” her mother retorted, “Gooleeli shasawi?”
Reem huffed furiously and flung herself onto the couch, tears stinging her eyes. “Nothing,” she mumbled. Her thoughts raced to her previous relationships – 3abdulla.. Jaber.. 5alid.. They’d all ended the same way; they’d warn her about her long tongue countless times until she got burned. This time was no different. A tear threatened to roll down Reem’s cheek, but she bit her quivering lip and inhaled the sweet scent of musk that she’d rubbed on her wrists earlier.

Mbarak walked into his chalet to find Wahab laying on the couch and watching TV. Wahab turned his head up at Mbarak and asked, “How was the lunch?”
“Zbala,” Mbarak growled.
“Giltlik,” Wahab affirmed, sitting up and turning the TV volume down, “Sh9ar?”
Mbarak told Wahab about everything from the nosey questions to him eavesdropping on Huda and Reem. Wahab shook his head in disappointment and ran the “I Told You So” record for Mbarak.
“Adri; please mali 5ilg ilm3ayar,” Mbarak grumbled, “T’3adait?”
“La, tawni ga3id,” Wahab smiled, stretching his legs across the brown leather sofa.
“5anroo7 nakel gabel la n7ader,” Mbarak suggested sheepishly.
“Nakel?” Wahab turned away from the TV and laughed a deep belly laugh, “Inta mo tawwik bale3?”
Mbarak chuckled and threw his pack of cigarettes at the crook of Wahab’s shoulder. “Ma t’hanait walla; 3ugub illi sima3ta!”
“Take it as a lesson learned,” Wahab smiled and pushed himself off the leather sofa. “McDonald’s?”
“Ya5i, malait min McDonald’s! This weekend alone destroyed 3 weeks at the gym wilsibba hal McDonald’s!”
“Killa junk food in Bnaider,” Wahab shrugged, “Shrayik nakil bildeera a7san?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mbarak sighed and sank into the auburn armchair, “Yalla, get dressed.”
While Wahab went into the bedroom to change his clothes, Mbarak called Jawhara. She picked up after the first ring, and he was overjoyed to hear her voice.
“Wainich, Joojti?” he spoke into the phone, a smile forming on his lips.
“Tawna 6al3een min Avenues. Mita btiyoon?” Jawhara frowned, struggling with the many shopping bags dangling from her arm.
“Ba3ad shway,” Mbarak replied. He continued to talk to her with one-word answers, his mind too busy thinking of a way to tell her about the lunch incident earlier without upsetting her. Before they hung up, Mbarak said, “Jawhara I need to talk to you about something.”
Jawhara chewed on her lower lip and frowned, “Shfeek?”
“Ba3dain agoolich,” Mbarak sighed, feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach.
“Is everything ok?” Jawhara pressed, her heart racing. She hated it when anyone kept her hanging and waiting to know what the problem was.
“Ma fee shay, Jojo; akalmich ba3dain,” Mbarak said quickly before telling her he had to go.

Jawhara held the phone in her hand and stared at “Something 7ilo ;* disconnected” until the text disappeared from the screen. She sighed heavily and Fajer turned to her, taking some of her shopping bags and loading them into the trunk of her car.
“Shfeech?” Fajer asked, worried that her friend’s relationship was spiraling down to a basket of heartaches already.
“Mbarak madri shfeeh,” Jawhara furrowed her brow, ”He says he needs to talk to me about something.”
“Waiiih 3abali 3indich salfa!” Fajer laughed as she walked around to get into the driver’s seat.
“Madri, Fajoor; I’m scared,” Jawhara confided in her best friend, “You know how guys say they need to talk to you, and then all of a sudden they start saying stuff like ‘I don’t think this is working out’ or something like that.”
“Babe, you’ve only known him for, what, three days?” Fajer smiled and pinched Jawhara’s cheek, “Don’t stress. I don’t think he’s going to say anything like that.”
“I hope not,” Jawhara rested her head against the beige strap of her seatbelt and stared out the window, watching the colorful numbered parking pillars disappear and turn into scrawny trees swaying in the blue-grey sky.

“You’re seriously thinking about telling her?” Wahab stared at Mbarak from the bedroom doorway, dumbfounded, “Tista3be6?”
“Shrayik Wahab?” Mbarak stood up and picked up his car keys from the coffee table. “I have to be honest.”
“Yeah, well your honesty is gonna cost you,” Wahab replied, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
“I’d rather be honest now than have her find out from someone later,” Mbarak’s eyes widened, “7abil ilchethb g9eer.”
“Who the hell is gonna tell her?” Wahab slid his feet into his sandals and picked up his overnight bag.
“Uhhh, you seriously think Reem and 5alti Huda would keep it to themselves?” Mbarak raised an eyebrow as they both headed out the door, locking the chalet behind them.
“Madri..” Wahab mumbled.

They drove back to the city in silence, thinking about their girls and how pulling the chalet out of the relationship will affect it. It is true that many Kuwaiti men have experienced the blinding love – where the girl is the center of their universe and everything else just revolves around her, and where diwaniyas and 3azayem are of little importance. But Mbarak and Wahab had always let the sea come between them and whoever was in their lives. It was like the sea was their true love; understanding their needs and satisfying their emotions, and best of all, listening without talking back. But this time, the sea was their glue. Without the magnificent ocean, Mbarak and Jawhara wouldn’t be, and neither would Fajer and Wahab. Like peeling off the binding spine of a novel, the pages will undoubtedly fall apart and fly away in the slightest breeze.
Mbarak nervously drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel, thinking about whether or not he should tell Jawhara about the lunch incident. In both cases, he would feel terrible – if he did tell her, she’d most likely stop talking to him, and if he didn’t tell her, she’d find out eventually from someone else and it would be worse. In a lose-lose situation, what was he to do?

Mbarak drove into 3dailiya, twisting and turning through the streets that led to Wahab’s house. When they finally reached Wahab’s brightly lit white home, Wahab thanked Mbarak for the ride, grabbed his overnight bag and was about to turn around to walk inside when he warned Mbarak again, “Barook, min 9ijji – latgoollaha.”
Mbarak shrugged his shoulders and called back, “Allah kareem!” and drove off into the dim backstreet.
Wahab stood in front of the gates of his house, staring at the building as if he was unfamiliar with it. He dreaded the feeling of pushing the large carved wooden door open; he compared his house to Pandora’s Box – once the door was opened, the suffocating emotions and stress tackled him and ate him alive. Wahab took a deep breath, absorbing the intoxicating fumes of the ful plants that his mother had planted so many years ago. He remembered how simple life was back then; as simple as a ful flower plucked fresh from the garden and left to sit in an old Kraft cheese glass filled with water. Now, the turmoil consumed him and his family, and he had to find a way to clear his space and make room for his blossom, Fajer.
Wahab called her, and though he was elated to talk to her, his words were slow and slurry, as if he was winding down from a long night of belligerent drinking.
“Shfeek, Wahabi?” Fajer cooed into the phone, shaking the contents of her shopping spree out of their bags.
“Ma feeni shay, Fajoorti; I’m just tired,” he sighed, “Sh’hal 9oot?”
“Matshoof shar,” she pouted, “Sharait a’3rath!”
A real smile lit up Wahab’s face for the first time that day. “Oh yeah? What’d you buy?”
Fajer was taken aback by his question – none of the guy’s she’d ever met had ever showed any interest in her love for shopping or her purchases, and with excitement, she rattled off the list of things she’d bought.
“No iPod?” Wahab laughed as he paced around the garden, not wanting the conversation to end.
“Weeee!!” Fajer exclaimed, “I totally forgot about the iPod! Jawhara didn’t remind me; waaaaay!”
“La tista3yelain 3alaih,” Wahab said kindly, “Bynazloon the 16GB Nano next week.”
“16GB is too much for me,” Fajer giggled, “Ma 3indi wayid songs – I just put the ones I know I’m going to listen to oo a3aleg 3alaihum until I switch them again.”
“May5alef,” Wahab chuckled, “Ta3alay, what’s your favorite animal?”
“Faj2a!” she smiled, feeling her cheeks turn rosy pink, “I love penguins.”
“Penguins?” Wahab laughed out loud, “Sh’hal fa9la!”
“Laish? They’re cuuuute! Have you ever seen ‘Happy Feet’?” Fajer asked.
“I’ve never had time,” Wahab admitted, grinding the soles of his sandals into the green grass.
“Oh.. Well we’ll see it inshallah, and then you’ll understand why I love them so much,” Fajer smiled, her heart swelling with anticipation of dates and long phone calls that she’d been deprived of in the past.
“Inshallah,” Wahab said quietly. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
Fajer bit her lower lip, suppressing her huge excited grin that she knew he’d hear in her voice. “Sure; inta shoof when you’re free. Bes ma nidgar in6awel.”
“I know,” Wahab grinned, “Walla lo two minutes bes ashoofich a6ayeb 5a6ri.”
Fajer’s ears tingled with heat, “Aww, Wahabi.. Inshalla may9eer 5a6rik illa 6ayeb.”
“Ba3ad 3umri,” Wahab whispered. “Inzain I have to go inside, 9arli sina wagef barra oo 7addi bardan. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Inshallah,” Fajer replied, and they hung up. She swooned at the thought of seeing him again, and in an instant, Fajer felt like she was 15 years old again, experiencing her first real crush. That night, she lay in bed with a smile that kept broadening at the flashing beep of her mobile phone, alerting her of Wahab’s sweet text messages. It didn’t take long for Fajer to drift off to sleep; her happy heart felt as light as air, not weighing her down for the first time in long lonely months.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 18)

2008-11-11T15:47:00.000-08:00

“5alti Huda!” Mbarak blurted out, distinguishing her sharp facial features. Huda was one of Um Mbarak’s friends; they were close for about three years until Huda filed for divorce from her husband and cut off her ties with everyone in an attempt to renew her life. And renew her life she did; Mbarak noticed her fuller cheeks, and her nose that was once a little pudgy was now so pointy she could skewer meat on it.
“Shloonik, 7abeebi? Shloon ummik?” Huda’s lips formed a tight smile.
“Walla b5air, il7mdilla. Intaw shloonkum? 3asakum b5air,” Mbarak poured out the formalities, his fingers twiddling in discomfort.
“7mdilla 3ala kil 7al,” Huda replied, “Binti Reem tgool shafitik bes ma kanat mt2akda itha inta wala la2.”
”Ee 5alti,” Mbarak laughed nervously, ”Ana oo rab3i yeena n’3ayer jaw..”
“Zain tsawoon, walla,” Huda shook her head, “Iljaw sh7alaaata!”
“Ee walla, 5alti,” Mbarak smiled, and Wahab pretended to cough severely.
Huda sensed Wahab’s uneasiness. “Inzain, 7abeebi, mabi a6awel 3alaikum. Ta3alaw t’3adaw 3indina bacher itha taboon.”
“Inshalla 5alti,” Mbarak replied, as Wahab’s eyes widened. Reem smiled smugly at Mbarak’s positive reply and waved at him flirtatiously before walking away with her mother.

“Tista3be6? Shino ‘Inshalla 5alti’?!” Wahab snapped once the women were out of sight.
“Shagoolaha ya3ni, ’La, 5alti, bintich zbala; mabi akel wiyakum’?” Mbarak chuckled, unwinding the sheesha hose from the glass body.
“Something like that!” Wahab cried, pushing the hot coals around with the metal tongs.
“Whayeb, yalla 3ad. It’s just lunch!”
“La, mo just lunch. Efham, ya thaki! You can go to this so-called lunch alone,” Wahab retorted.
“Winta shbitsawi?” Mbarak exhaled the fragrant smoke into the cool night air.
“Inshalla akel trab, bes ma at’3ada wiya hal ashkal,” Wahab raised his eyebrows.
“3ala ra7tik,” Mbarak sighed, and passed the sheesha hose to Wahab.
The rest of the hour was spent in deafening silence, except for the sound of the bubbling sheesha that soon died when the coals turned to ashes.

That night, Mbarak slept with a heavy heart. Knowing that he wouldn’t be seeing Jawhara first thing in the morning bothered him, but not more than the fact that he’d so eagerly replaced her presence with that of two women that he couldn’t stand.

The sun rose in Kuwait City, dawning on a new day for Jawhara and Fajer. As planned, they’d eaten their breakfast as quickly as they could and got dressed to go shopping. Fajer’s car slowed down to a halt in front of Jawhara’s home, and she honked the horn twice, signaling for Jawhara to come downstairs. In a matter of moments, Jawhara appeared at the black iron gates, dressed in heather grey leggings and a cotton-candy pink cashmere tunic. She hated getting dressed up to go shopping, because the tediousness of taking off layers and layers of clothing when trying something on made the shopping experience less enjoyable. Fajer, who had developed a habit of never trying things on, wore her favorite pair of jeans and an oversized red slouchy top.
“Red? Mo min 3awaydich!” Jawhara commented as she crouched into the leather passenger seat.
“Yeah, I found it hanging in the back of my closet oo kisar 5a6ri,” Fajer smiled behind her huge sunglasses, “Laish? Does it look bad?”
“No; bil 3aks!” Jawhara assured her, “You look hot!”
“Intay hot,” Fajer giggled as they drove off to the Avenues. The morning weather was perfect – it was sunny, but because of the nippy breeze, it was hard to catch a ray of warmth. Nothing complemented the weather more perfectly than a steaming cup of Toffee Nut Latte from Starbucks 3dailiya and a playlist of M7amed 3abdu jalsat.
“I think our drives are the only thing I love about the city,” Jawhara concluded.
“I know, 9a7?” Fajer agreed, “A7la shay when we cruise. Just wait until winter really rolls in – a5aiiiih! Those are the best cruises.”
The girls reminisced about the winter days of the previous year, where they’d go for late-night cruises. They’d wear their comfiest sweats and hoodies and listen to R’n’B while driving around residential areas, deciding which houses they liked and which they didn’t, which cars they’d like to steal and which ones they wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The drive to the Avenues was purposely slow – the girls wanted to enjoy the sunshine streaming through the windshield before cooping themselves up in the mall all afternoon.

Mbarak woke up with a throbbing headache and a queasy stomach – he knew sheesha on an empty stomach was a bad idea. It was then he remembered the events of last night and how Wahab got upset with him, and how he’d put himself in an awkward position having to go to Huda’s chalet for lunch. He knew Wahab wasn’t the kind of person that held grudges, so he wasn’t worried about Wahab at all. What worried him was the kinds of intrusive questions he knew he’d be asked; about his family, about his career, and worst of all, about marriage.
Mbarak was always bombarded with questions pertaining to marriage, whether with his family or relatives. The truth was that he wanted to get married and settle down so badly, but he wanted to find the right girl for him and not go through an arranged marriage – or worse, have someone forced upon him. So the answer to the inevitable marriage question was “Allah kareem; illi Allah katba by9eer, inshalla.”. He hoped that that answer would satisfy Huda today, and that she wouldn’t press for more details that were none of her business.

By the time Mbarak showered and got dressed, it was already 1.30 PM. Surprisingly, Wahab was still asleep – he never slept in, especially since it was their last morning. Mbarak left his car keys on the table in case Wahab wanted to go out. Before he headed out, he gave Jawhara a call to make sure she was doing well.
“Barook, mita bit7adroon?” Jawhara asked while flipping through racks of colorful clothes at H&M.
“Ba3ad shway; bnit’3ada oo bn7ader inshalla,” Mbarak replied.
“Inta oo Wahab? Wain btit’3adoon?” Jawhara giggled into the phone.
Mbarak felt horrible lying to Jawhara. “Madri, inshoof wagoolich. Ok, Jojo?”
“Ok.. Take care,” Jawhara smiled.
“Intay ba3ad, witha tabeen shay, call me,” Mbarak told her before hanging up and heading out to Huda’s chalet.

Reem had spent all morning primping and pampering for Mbarak’s visit. She’d blow-dried her hair and used a curling iron to curl her hair into luscious golden spirals. She sat patiently at her dressing table and carefully applied her liquid eyeliner and mascara, and looked through her oversized make-up bag for her favorite lipstick.
Huda walked by Reem’s room and smiled at her daughter’s reflection in the mirror. “Ee 5aleech chithee! Tekashe5ay oo tesane3ay; 5al yishoofich!” she beamed.
“Adriii, mama,” Reem smiled hopefully, “Shalbis? Madri shalbis!”
“Libsay shay mratab,” her mother tapped her fingers on the wooden door frame, “Bes mo wayid over.”
“Inshalla, mama,” Reem nodded slyly and got up to see what she had hanging in her closet that was appropriate enough to wear for lunch without seeming like she’d tried too hard. She opted for a sequined black velour training suit and her sparkly sandals.
When she walked down the stairs, her mother complimented her on the way she looked, running her fingers through her big swirly curls. As if on cue, Mbarak knocked on the door, indicating his arrival.

“Ya 7ayallah min yaaana!” Huda smiled and led Mbarak into the chalet.
“Allah yi7ayeech, 5alti,” Mbarak replied, gagging at the formalities that he hated so much. He scoped out the chalet’s décor – it was so nicely decorated with a shabby-chic seaside motif, with white-washed wooden furniture and giant seashells and candles scattered on the low-rise glass coffee table. The dining table was already set for three – he was going to ask whether her husband would be joining them for lunch, but he bit his tongue when he remembered the gruesome divorce.
Reem sat quietly and lowered her head while Huda asked Mbarak about his family and how everyone was doing. She imagined herself at her own 5i6ba, in a beautiful yet simple dress, surrounded by his family and waiting for him to arrive and ease her tension.

Lunch was served almost immediately. The table was covered with dishes of food; steaming m6abag zbaidi, prawn curry, golden m7ammar, grilled salmon filets, wok-tossed vegetables, and a large bowl of a delicious looking salad. Everything looked appetizing, and the array of smells made Mbarak’s mouth water.
Reem tried several times to serve him or fill up his glass of water, but Mbarak politely declined. Huda’s urging glances made Reem feel helpless, and she shrugged a little, not knowing how to show Mbarak that she was a worthy candidate for his love and attention.
Everything Mbarak ate, he loved. The m7amar was his favorite – the crispy red 7akooka lay on top of the fluffy orange rice. When he bit into it, the saffron flavor melted on his tongue, leaving him to discover another flavor that he’d never tasted with m7amar before – orange zest. The prawn curry was cooked to perfection. Mbarak was a seafood connoisseur and it bothered him when fine seafood was overcooked. The prawns were nothing close to rubbery, and the curry itself had a tantalizing taste to it; something like lime and chili, and of course, the perfect amount of garlic.
He ate slowly and chewed well, savoring every last bit of food. Huda babbled on about the poor situation of the stock market, and Mbarak nodded every so often and spoke a few sentences in response. Reem was lost in his very being, staring at him while he ate, smiling when he spoke, and poking her salad around her plate with a silver fork.

And then, the unavoidable happened; Huda opened up the subject of marriage – a can of worms Mbarak had so cleverly tried to evade opening.
“Mo nawi titzawaj?” Huda asked hopefully, glancing at Reem from the corner of her eye.
Reem’s heart raced waiting for his response, and when Mbarak swallowed his food, he cleared his throat and answered, “La 5alti, taw innaas.”
Agitation washed over Huda as she quickly said, “Wee, ma 3indik salfa! Ilnas mayteen 3alzawaj winta tgool taw innaas! Inzain, ma 3indik wa7da b5a6rik?”
Mbarak laughed out loud and quickly settled down, not wanting to seem rude. “La 5alti, min wainli?”
Reem was about to snort and shout ‘Laa? Then who was that girl you were cuddling the other day when you ignored me??’, but for once, something told her it was in her best interest to keep her mouth shut. Instead, she smiled at his answer and lowered her head.
Mbarak took a sip of his water and excused himself to go to the restroom. When Reem and Huda heard the bathroom door close, Reem was about ready to explode.
“Mama! Shino ya3ni ‘min wainli’!! Yige9 3alaina, hatha??” her voice raised well above a whisper.
“Wee, min 9ijjich intay!” Huda curled her wrist, “7esbalich yi7ibha theech? 9adgeeni, shahar oo beyge6ha ba7ar!”
“Shdaraach?” Reem frowned, picking up a cherry tomato and biting into it.
“Ra7 tshoofeen; oo goolay ummich ma galat!” Huda smiled cunningly.
“I hope you’re right,” Reem swallowed a lump and stared out of the window at the crashing sea.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 17)

2008-11-10T03:01:00.000-08:00

Fajer’s heart raced a mile a minute, and her mind spun into thoughts, trying to retrace her steps and see if she’d done anything that may have insulted Wahab. She couldn’t remember doing anything wrong; she was dressed appropriately, she hadn’t made any physical advances, and she was polite to him. ‘What is it, then?’ she wondered.
“huh?? shsawait!!!” Fajer texted back, her stomach churning while waiting for a reply.
After a long moment of waiting, her phone finally beeped with a text message. Fajer opened it, expecting to find a long-winded text of angry words and accusations. Instead, only three words were etched on the bright white light of her phone’s screen: “5alaiteeni olah 3alaich ;(“
Fajer laughed out loud and let out a sigh of relief; not only was her conscience clear, but also Wahab was a sweetheart. She texted back: “waay 5ara3tni wahabo! i miss u too walla ma weddi arid ildeera ;((“
Her phone beeped shortly after with another text message: “may5alef fajoor bacher eltheher bn7ader ana oo barok :) wenshalla ashoofech soon”
She replied “enshallah” and placed her mobile in the cup holder of her car, keeping her focus on the traffic and the distance between her and Jawhara’s cars; she didn’t want to lose her way or lose the clear transmission and end up listening to crackling music.
As soon as the girls reached the turn into Qur6uba’s main street, Jawhara called Fajer. “Tiyeen 3indi?” she asked.
“Yeah, bes lazim arid ilbeit asalem 3ala my parents first oo 3ala6ool ayi,” Fajer replied, and took a right turn onto the street where her home was.

To Fajer’s disappointment, her parents weren’t home. According to Lucy, her nanny, they’d gone to an 3azeema and wouldn’t be home until much later evening. So, Fajer called her mother to inform her of her visit to Jawhara’s house. Once she got the green light, Fajer changed into her comfy grey sweats and a bright white T-shirt and took off to Jawhara’s house.
Fajer and Jawhara didn’t need to ring doorbells and wait outside for an invitation when they visited one another. As if they were family, they barged into one another’s houses and clambered up the stairs into their rooms, and helped themselves to whatever was in the fridge without having to ask. Of course, it took a while for this to become acceptable – in the beginning of Jawhara and Fajer’s friendship, there was no way either of them would set foot in one another’s houses if they weren’t at home. Now, it became normal for Jawhara to come home from her errands and find Fajer in her room, watching TV or reading magazines.

When Fajer reached Jawhara’s house, she did as she normally would and walked into Jawhara’s chocolate brown room. Jawhara, sprawled on the floor, was surrounded with packets of gum, strawberry snake candy, M&M’s, potato chips, and many other treats.
“Did you rob a baqala?” Fajer laughed, “What’s all this?”
“I’m hating the deera already,” Jawhara moped, pouring a handful of vibrant Skittles into her hand and cramming them into her mouth.
“Tell me about it,” Fajer sighed, ripping the wrapper off a Snickers bar and taking a big bite. The sweet sluice of the caramel ran along her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and she closed her eyes in bliss as the melted chocolate remnants slithered down her throat. “Are you tasting the rainbow?”
Jawhara nodded matter-of-factly and stuck her tongue out at Fajer, revealing blotches of yellow, orange, purple, and green. “Is this what we’re gonna do for the rest of the evening?”
Fajer shrugged, “It’s too late to go out. Shinsawi?”
“Be vegetables,” Jawhara rolled onto her back on the plush ivory carpet, “It’s what we do best. Besides, aren’t you tired? Ana jismi mitkaser from this weekend.”
“I’m tired, but I’m more bored than tired,” Fajer complained and then suggested, “5al nig3ad 3al balcony?”
“Balcony it is,” Jawhara grunted as she picked herself off the floor, grabbing a bag of Thai Sweet Chili chips as she and Fajer walked out onto Jawhara’s balcony.
The two wicker lounge chairs that the girls had bought from IKEA were in the same position as they’d always been – side by side, but slightly turned to one another at the foot. In between the chairs stood a matching end table with a tiled top that was perfect for the summer, when their icy glasses of sugar-free Red Bull could dribble moisture onto the pale tiles without ruining the aged bamboo of the table. Jawhara placed the oversized bag of chips onto the end table and lay down on the contoured lounge chair. Both girls stared up at the night sky, their eyes searching for stars. But, they couldn’t see a single one; the city sky was like a smoggy pesticide that had been sprayed to kill all of the white fireflies that used to dance in the sky. Fajer’s heart sank, and she pulled out her phone to text message Wahab: “there are no stars in the sky ;(”
Her phone beeped moments later with a message that read: “thats cuz ur eyes stole them ;)”
She sighed heavily and smiled; how come he was never this flirtatious when she was around him? ‘I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder,’ she mused.

“I miss 3abood 5owaja,” Jawhara said before she crunched on a potato chip.
“9ij? I figured you’d be missing Mbarak,” Fajer teased, reaching into the foil bag for a handful of chips.
“I do miss him, silly; shrayich ya3ni? Bes I’ll miss hearing 3abood 5owaja’s songs,” Jawhara sighed when she remembered the night she and Mbarak swam in the sea.
“Yeah, well, at least your iPod is working. Remind me to buy a new one sometime this week,” Fajer noted.
Jawhara licked her lips, moistening them from the dry night air. Her tongue tasted the tiny chili specks that remained from the Sweet Chili chips and a hint of her favorite lipstick, Chanel #4. Her mobile beeped with a message from Mbarak: “laitek ma3i saheren lail elhawa kella.. ;r”
She wrinkled her nose and read the message out loud to Fajer. “I really wish we could go back. It hasn’t been two hours here and already we’re bored to death,” Jawhara grumbled.
“What to do, babe? Bacher il9ib7 inroo7 shopping.. shrayich?” Fajer suggested.
“Sounds good,” Jawhara nodded slowly, swallowing the last of the crumbs from the bag of chips.

Back in Bnaider, Mbarak and Wahab decided to bring out the sheeshas for a smoke in the cool night air. Mbarak wasn’t a fan of sheesha, but he only smoked it in the chalet. The bright orange coals sat on the perforated silver foil, heating up the sticky sweet tobacco that was packed tightly in the clay head of the sheesha. Wahab took a drag from the long colorful hose, and the water in the curvy glass body bubbled furiously. He exhaled the heady scent of sweet red apples, and was instantly reminded of Fajer’s sweet apple scent. The other day he’d asked her what it was, and she shyly answered that it was her Disney Princess Snow White shower gel, hence the delicate apple fragrance.
The guys’ winding thoughts were cut short when two women approached their chalet. One of them, Mbarak recognized in the pitch dark night, was Reem. She was fully clothed for the first time that week, dressed in an electric blue terrycloth lounge set. The woman next to her looked much older, yet dressed as if she was Reem’s age. Her hair was dyed golden brown, and she wore a burgundy velour hoodie with matching drawstring pants.
“Wai3; laish ya3ni? Laish?” Wahab whispered angrily to Mbarak.
Mbarak shushed him as the women walked nearer to them. The older woman turned to Mbarak and said, “Mbarak, shloonik?”
He quickly exhaled the thick sheesha smoke and stood up, almost toppling his plastic chair over. As the woman stomped in the sand, moving closer to the porch light, Mbarak recognized her face.

+++++ M7amed 3abdu - Laitik Ma3i Saher +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 16)

2008-11-09T01:08:00.000-08:00

The machboos was the best they’d ever tasted; the flavorful saffron rice and the succulent golden-brown chicken melted in their mouths and settled their growling stomachs. The patio table was covered with bowls of “machboos salad”, as Wahab called it, and small dishes of tongue-tickling ma3booch.
“You’ve never had machboos salad before?” Wahab asked Fajer as he watched her poke through the salad with her fork. The small triangles of orange carrots, bright green cucumbers, lettuce strips and juicy tomatoes were drizzled in a sweet vinegar dressing.
“Not really; no,” Fajer blushed, putting a heaping spoonful of salad onto her plate. She wasn’t a big fan of carrots in her salad, but she figured she’d try it anyway. After mixing the yellow rice with the shredded chicken and the colorful salad, Fajer spooned the mixture into her mouth and chewed.
Wahab smiled at her, “Ta5le6een kilshay wiya ba3ath?”
“I wouldn’t talk, Mr. Barbecue-ketchup-and-chili-sauce!” she replied after she’d swallowed the rice.
“Hey, thaak sauce – ‘3air!” Wahab tried to defend himself.
“La, la, nafs ilshay!” Fajer giggled, “Here, try it.”
“La, ma7ib chithee!” he made a face, “I like everything on it’s own.”
“Hey, may9eer, I tried your nasty sauce thing!”
“Al7een 9ar nasty 3ugub ma 6ayarteeh?” Wahab laughed and gave in, “Fine; just one bite.”
Fajer pushed her plate towards him and she helped him scoop the combination into his spoon. After moments of watching Wahab chew, she heard the sound of appreciation she’d been waiting for and continued eating. “I told you so,” she smiled.

“Jojo, 3alamich ma takleen?” Mbarak asked Jawhara, who was picking the stuffing out of the saffron rice, “A7e6lich chicken?”
She nodded shyly; she felt so timid when eating in front of Mbarak, mainly because she was scared of dropping food onto her clothes.
“Sha7e6lich?” Mbarak asked as he flipped the crispy chicken over, breast side up.
“Only the wings, please,” she blinked, pursing her lips.
“Bes?? It’s so little!” he wrinkled his brow and reached for the wing portions, tearing them off and putting them on Jawhara’s plate.
“Well it’s the only part I really like. Thanks, Barook,” she smiled as she began to nibble on the brown wings.
“Akramkum Allah,” the girls said sweetly after they’d finished eating.
“9e7a oo 3afya; 7ayakum anytime,” Mbarak and Wahab replied.

Clouds swept over Bnaider, blocking the warm sun and allowing the cool breeze to pick up it’s pace. The tide was washing away, the small waves echoing their rumbling sounds to the shore. It was only 4.30 PM, but Jawhara, Fajer, Wahab, and Mbarak were extremely exhausted. They spent long moments staring aimlessly at the bluish-grey sky until Mbarak broke the ice.
“Mita bt7adroon?” he asked, not turning his head away from the somber horizon.
“Ba3ad shway,” Jawhara replied, tilting her head back to stretch her neck, “When the sun sets.”
Wahab turned to Fajer, his smile fading away when he understood the reality of going back to the city; he wouldn’t see Fajer as often as he’d liked, and his workload would probably drown him. His heart sank at the thought of losing the sense of freedom that he enjoyed so much. Exams were coming up in a couple of weeks, and there was no way he could slack off, which probably meant that he wouldn’t be accompanying Mbarak to the chalet next weekend, or the weekend after that.
On impulse, and as if to pacify his racing thoughts, Wahab reached his hand out across the arm of the white plastic chair and slipped it into Fajer’s drooping hand. She let out a short gasp and whipped her face to his, her eyes giving him a questioning look.
Wahab’s lips curled upward, and instantly Fajer felt at ease. The tensed up muscles of her hands relaxed and she let her fingers intertwine with his, and for the first time in a long time, Fajer felt genuinely cared for. They’d been sitting quietly the entire time, each one lost in his or her own thoughts – ‘Akeed he was thinking of me; why else would he hold my hand out of nowhere like that?’ she thought to herself.

Mbarak twisted in his seat to turn on the tiny radio that was never moved out of it’s place. Instantly, 3abood 5owaja’s voice filled the air, completing the vibe that the girls had gotten so accustomed to in the past few days. “Kil Shay Feek Zain, Wint Min Il-Zain A7la.. Ye5’6a3 Il-Zain Lik, Ya Seed Kil Il-Mezayeen!”
Jawhara smiled and closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the drums and the meanings of the words. Mbarak inched closer to her ear and whispered, “Ehdaa2,” the warmth of his breath making her ears prickle. Her smile broadened, and she opened her eyes for just a moment to place her hand into his.
They all stayed that way; quiet but bubbling over with emotions, as the sky turned indigo and one by one, the stars sprouted like tiny white flowers in the sky.

“I think we should be heading back,” Jawhara whispered, trying not to disturb the peace so suddenly, “It’s 7.30.” She looked at Fajer; her head was tipped to the side in what looked like the most uncomfortable way to sleep. Jawhara was reminded of the many times where she’d fall asleep that way on her flights, and the discomfort of an achy neck that she’d have to endure until her muscles relaxed.
“5aleeha; ta3bana,” Wahab said quietly.
“La, we have to head back. Madri shloon bitsoog, bes we have to get back. It’s getting dark,” Jawhara explained. “Fajoor.. Fajoor goomay,” she said softly, gently shaking Fajer’s right shoulder.
Fajer’s eyes fluttered open, and within moments, she shook the drowsiness off and she and Jawhara both headed back to Jawhara’s chalet to pack their bags the second time around.

“I don’t wanna go,” Fajer admitted to Jawhara while folding her sweater.
“Me either, bes shinsawi ba3ad,” Jawhara pouted, “I had fun, though; didn’t you?”
“Ee akeed I had fun, babe. Bes I’m worried about how things will go when we’re back in the city.”
“Shda3wa, Fajoor! It’s gonna be fine; we’ll have their numbers and we’ll talk to them and see them whenever. Mara7 yi6eeroon!”
“Madri, Jooj,” Fajer sighed, “It won’t be the same, though.”
“Of course it won’t,” Jawhara said as she looked out the glass window at the moonlit sea, “It’s never the same when we’re in the city. You know how people are!”
“Yeah.. Allah Kareem,” Fajer zipped up her weekender bag and flopped onto the bed, “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Jawhara hummed as she slipped into her sandals, “Let’s go say bye to the guys.”

The girls walked out onto the grassy garden and peered from around the white concrete wall to see if Wahab and Mbarak were still waiting on the patio. They were, and when Jawhara signaled for them to come over, they hurriedly walked over to the girls.
“Mashyeen?” Mbarak asked sadly.
“Yup,” Jawhara jammed her fists into the kangaroo pockets of her sweater, “Do you guys need anything?”
“Salamatkum,” they replied, and Wahab timidly asked Fajer if he could talk to her in private. Fajer walked along the garden ledge, one foot in front of the other, with her hand on Wahabs shoulder for support.
When they were a considerable distance away, Mbarak pulled out his mobile from the pocket of his shorts and stared at the bright light of it’s screen. “Inzain, 3ashan man6awelha wihya g9eera,” he peered up at Jawhara and smiled his million-dollar smile, “What’s your number?”
Jawhara giggled and shook her head, “Give me your number and I’ll message you.”
“Fregat ya3ni?” Mbarak raised an eyebrow.
“I just wanna make sure that I have yours as well,” Jawhara smiled.
Mbarak couldn’t resist her. “Fine; it’s 99973…”
Jawhara punched the numbers onto the keypad of her mobile, and when Mbarak had finished saying his number, he checked to make sure she’d gotten it right. “Save me under something 7ilo, 3ad,” he winked.
“Will do,” Jawhara blushed, and did exactly that. She saved him as “Something 7ilo ;*”
After they’d said their good-byes, Mbarak wrapped Jawhara in his arms and gave her a long tight hug. “Deeray balich bil6ireej, ok? Latdooseen!”
“Inshallah,” she replied, her voice muffled by his chest. He kissed the top of her head and let go. “Be good!” she called out to him as he waved and smiled.

Fajer and Jawhara made their way to their cars and threw their bags in. Rose climbed into the back seat of Jawhara’s SUV and as soon as everything was settled, Jawhara reversed and followed Fajer’s BMW onto the narrow curvy roads of Bnaider.
Jawhara didn’t want to wait out sending Mbarak a text message as most girls would do, so she pulled out her phone and sent him a text: “thanks for an amazing weekend :)” In less than a minute, her phone beeped with a text from him that read “intay illi thanks :) the moon isn’t smiling tonight cuz u left”.
She looked out of the driver’s seat window up at the sky, her eyes searching for the moon. Funny enough, the moon was at it’s third quarter, so the Man in the Moon didn’t appear.
The drive home was long and tiring, with only the sounds of M7amed 3abdu keeping Jawhara and Fajer alert. Fajer, who was driving closely behind Jawhara, fed off of Jawhara’s iPod station so that they both listened to the same songs. Jawhara’s phone beeped; it was a text from Fajer: “stop changing the songs yuba nabi nisma3 e’3niya kamla!”
“loooool a7ibich ;* next song ehda2” Jawhara punched back into her keypad, and she skimmed through her M7amed 3abdu playlist until she found “Wajh Il-Sa3ad”. Jawhara sang at the top of her lungs, “Yalli ‘3araaamik Fee 5ufoogi Min Kithir Gadrah Yifee’6! Il-Nafs Tandeb 7a’6aha Wil-3ain Tabki 7ayyaha!”

Fajer looked at Jawhara, who was staring at her from the rear-view mirror. She saluted to her, and Fajer’s phone beeped with a text message. When she read it, her face drained of color – it was Wahab. “Fajer sh’hal 7arakat!! 7esbalech illi ga3da tsaweena 9a7, ya3ni??”

+++++ 3abood 5owaja - Kil Shay Feek Zain +++++
+++++ M7amed 3abdu - Wajh Il-Sa3ad +++++

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 15)

2008-11-06T10:54:00.001-08:00

Jawhara grabbed onto the vinyl cushioning of the jet boat and turned her head to Mbarak’s chest, shielding her eyes from the stinging salt. ‘If this is their idea of a surprise, they’re sooo wrong!’ she thought grumpily.
“Mita no9al? Where are we even going??” Jawhara shouted to Mbarak over the deafening engine.
“Shway; you’ll see!” Mbarak replied, lovingly rubbing her upper arm.
Jawhara thanked God when she felt the jet boat slow down; they must be at their destination. But when Jawhara and Fajer looked around, they were in the middle of the frightening sea with no island in sight, and they were so far away from the mainland that the chalets looked like grains of sand neatly arranged along the coast.
Jawhara was panic-stricken, the worst thoughts clouding her head. ‘Are they going to drown us?’ she thought, her heart racing. She looked at Fajer, who was leaning over the edge of the jet boat as Jawhara had done earlier, trying to scope out the bottom of the ocean.
“Jojo,” Mbarak interrupted her morbid thoughts as the boat stopped, “Look.” He pointed out to the nearby waves that were nodding up and down as if they were appreciating their presence. “Do you see it?”
Jawhara shook her head and wiped the salt water off her face, “See what? Killa waves!”
“Look closely!” Mbarak urged, pointing at the same place again, “There!”

“Oh my God!! Oh my God, wanaasaaaaa!!” Fajer quickly stood up and shrieked with delight. Wahab laughed as he moved over to where Fajer was.
“What? What??” Jawhara cried, “Shino fee??”
“Oh my God, Jawharaaa! DOLPHINS!!” Fajer cried, ecstatic.
“WHAT?! WHERE?” Jawhara exclaimed.
“Here, don’t you see them, Jojo?” Mbarak turned her face towards the ocean and pointed.
Surely enough, amidst the navy blue waves, slivers of grey dolphin skin emerged from the surface and dipped back into the water. Jawhara went wild with joy, almost toppling over the wound anchor ropes.
“I wanna see!” she cried, her heart racing with desire.
“La7tha,” Mbarak fumbled with the wooden lid of the anchor box, and when it finally opened, he pulled out two pairs of snorkeling goggles and handed one each to Jawhara and Fajer. “Here, put these on and just put your head in the water.”
The girls quickly put the goggles on and leaned over the edge of the jet boat, careful not to fall over, and Mbarak and Wahab put their hands on the girls’ hips to steady them. Jawhara dunked her head into the cold glassy ocean, which suddenly felt so inviting again. The sight brought tears to her eyes.

There it was; just like she had always pictured the deep blue sea. The sandy bed was so far down that she couldn’t see it, but it didn’t bother her. She didn’t think of the crustaceans she’d imagined would scurry across the sand. She didn’t even worry that there were no colorful exotic fish creating moving rainbows in the water. Blinking back tears, Jawhara admired the way the sunlight formed a natural spotlight in the darkness for her to take in the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen in Bnaider; no, the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen in her life. Four bottle-nosed dolphins undulated and swayed in the turquoise water, like lengths of silvery-grey silk fluttering in a spring breeze. They swirled this way and that, nodding their heads against the chilly current.
Fajer still had her head submerged in the water, in awe at the incredible scene. This was something they both never thought they’d see in Kuwait.
Mbarak and Wahab tugged the girls’ shirts, signaling for them to pull their heads out of the water for air; with all the excitement, they’d forgotten to breathe.

Jawhara pulled the soaking goggles off her head and wiped away a stray tear. “Sub7an Allah,” she said, still absorbing what she’d just seen.
“Yeah, 9ij WOW!” Fajer smiled, handing the goggles to Wahab, “Take a look!”
“La, it’s ok,” he politely declined, “We see them all the time.”
“You’ve never seen dolphins before?” Mbarak asked the girls.
“Only at Sea World,” Jawhara replied, looking back at the ocean in hopes to see a dolphin rising to the surface.
“Well, this is the real world,” Mbarak said with a warm smile, “Welcome to the real Bnaider.”
“I love it,” Fajer gushed, “I’ve never seen anything like that – EVER!”
Wahab scooted closer to her and put his arm around her, “You guys ready to head back?”
Jawhara shook her head, her wide eyes pleading for a few more minutes with the beautiful dolphins. Like a child, she dipped her hand in the water, fanning her fingers and trying to get the dolphins’ attention. She wanted so badly to touch one; to stroke it’s gleaming body as it glided by. But to her dismay, the dolphins never resurfaced, and after long minutes of her futile attempts, Jawhara sadly gave up and told Wahab that they could head back to the chalet if they liked.

The drive back was so much more pleasant; the sea was gentle and so was Wahab’s driving. He maneuvered past the sharp waves and soon enough, they had reached the shores of Bnaider. The small lapping waves seemed inferior to the vast depths of the ocean, but Jawhara appreciated them nonetheless. The cool water was relaxing, and the grainy squishy mud was her foot therapy.
“I’m starving,” Fajer whined, “Wain bnakel?”
“I don’t know,” Jawhara shrugged, “I forgot to tell Rose to make anything for lunch.”
“Great,” Fajer pouted, “I don’t think my stomach can handle McDonald’s anymore.”
“I’ll just tell the cook to make something light,” Jawhara said, drying off her wet feet.
Wahab overheard their conversation and interjected, “You guys are eating with us today.”
“Ha? Min gaal?” Fajer asked, turning around to face him.
“Ana agool; yalla,” Wahab insisted.
“La, Wahab, fashla. I’m sure you guys want to spend time together without us; may9eer!”
“La fashla wala shay. It’s food. Better yet, it’s machboos, and I know you can’t resist,” Wahab said with a sly grin. It was true; Fajer’s weakness was a giant plate of steaming machboos with a side of red hot ma3booch.
“Fine,” Fajer surrendered with a smile, “But this is the last time.”

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 14)

2008-11-05T23:33:00.000-08:00

Wow.. It’s just one great day after another :D As if Glitter’s wonderful surprise wasn’t enough to get me going through the day, Yesterday I woke up to the most amazing news – Barack Obama is to be the next president of the USA.. So, a huge congratulations to Mr. Obama, his family, and to everyone that supports him (because God knows I do!!), and inshalla his term will be a life changing one for everyone in the best way possible :D Cheers!
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When Fajer and Wahab arrived at Mbarak’s chalet, an enormous smile spread across Jawhara’s face. She threw her Uno cards down onto the white plastic table and brushed the brown peanut skins off of her Juicy velour pants, standing up to hug her best friend.
“Ya chicken, ma 5ala9na the game!” Mbarak teased, “Wala 5ayfa innich bta5sereen again?”
“You wish!” Jawhara called over Fajer’s shoulder.
“You wish, dream on,” Mbarak joked, “Kil hatha oo you didn’t win a single game!”
“Baiih! Uno! Sha5bari!” Wahab exclaimed as he sat down at the table. Fajer and Jawhara sat in the two empty seats that normally would’ve been occupied by 3ammar and Nawaf. They chattered about trivial things and laughed together like best friends. Jawhara stared at Mbarak when he spoke, a feeling between being lost in his words and pure bliss overwhelming her. She’d never imagined a Kuwaiti guy to be so friendly and easygoing, and the joy of being able to sit for a while and not be a couple exclusively.
The sapphire night gave way to a lavender sky, and the sparkling stars faded into an array of tangerine cirrus clouds, and the girls struggled to keep their eyes open while Mbarak and Wahab babbled away. In the distance, the harmony of two mosques calling for prayer wafted towards the chalets, and without a second thought, Mbarak and Wahab excused themselves to pray the dawn prayer.

“So what do you think?” Jawhara blinked back the sleep in her eyes.
“About what?” Fajer yawned, completely oblivious to the events that took place earlier.
“About Wahab, maybe?” Jawhara reminded her, raising an eyebrow.
“Ee!” she remembered the long walk and wonderful conversations, a sluggish smile decorating her face, “He’s nice, walla, ma hagaita chithee at all.”
Jawhara grinned at her friend’s satisfaction, “Ashwa, 7mdilla! Shlooon?”
“Madri, babe, he’s nice oo damma 5afeef oo he’s not trying to be someone he’s not..,” Fajer trailed off. It was then she realized that the drowsiness had well washed over her, and that she was slurring her words. “Wai3, shfeeni faj2a di5t?”
“Me too, walla. Bes let them come back oo we’ll tell them that we’re going back to sleep,” Jawhara assured her. Moments later, both of the guys walked back out onto the patio. “Taqabal Allah,” the girls hummed, their voices thick with sleep.
“Minna oo minkum,” they replied. “Shfeekum; feekum ilnoom?” Mbarak asked, chuckling at Jawhara, who was slumped over on the deck table, resting her head on her folded arms.
“Mm..” Jawhara mumbled groggily, burying her head into the warm sleeves of her sweater.
The guys stood up and helped the girls onto their feet, and walked them back to Jawhara’s chalet while the early fiery sunrays dappled their faces. After wishing them a pleasant sleep, Mbarak and Wahab walked back to their chalet and got ready to sleep as well.

Rose swayed into the dark chalet; the girls had rolled down the electric shutters so the bright sun wouldn’t disrupt their slumber. “Jo-haraaaa!” she sang loudy, clapping her hands, “What you want por laaanch?”
Jawhara gasped and sprang up from her sleep – she was the lightest sleeper in her whole family, and Rose used that fact to her advantage. She woke Jawhara at the oddest hours of the morning; sometimes for no good reason.
“Rose!” Jawhara whispered loudly, “What the hell! I’m sleeping!” A faint migraine crawled around her head.
“Por laaanch! What you want pood?” Rose repeated, shoving her fists into the front pockets of her green uniform.
“Nothing, Rose; not now!” Jawhara pleaded, taking an envious fleeting look at Fajer who was in a serene deep sleep.
“Ay, dois mio!” Rose shook her head, “Abdul want to buy teengs por da keetchen!”
“Mo wagtich, ya Rose! We’ll order from somewhere!” Jawhara dismissed her, pushing her head back into the fluffy goose-down pillow. She tossed and turned uncomfortably for a good thirty minutes before sleep revisited her and drowned her in a series of incomprehensible dreams.
All she remembered from it was that she was walking on the surface of a cobalt blue sea, wearing a long white cloak. Underneath her, trapped in the water, were old familiar faces of people she’d loved and hated, and montages of previous events in her lifetime. Suddenly, she falls into the sea where the rigid surface ends, and she is pulled by Mbarak and Fajer, who are swimming behind Wahab. At that point, Jawhara woke up feeling unusually peaceful. She checked the time – 11 AM; she’d only been asleep for 6 hours. Not wanting to waste their last day in bed, she woke Fajer up, shaking her gently and telling her that the sea was waiting.

It didn’t take long for the girls to get dressed for their last day at the beach – they even skipped their usual filling breakfast and trotted out to the beach crunching on sourly-sweet green apples. Much to their surprise, Mbarak and Wahab were already awake, unloading their shiny white jet boat onto the dazzling blue ocean.
“9aba7 il5air!” Mbarak called out, “You’re right on time!”
“On time for what?” Jawhara asked, confused.
“We’re taking you guys out for a spin today,” Wahab elucidated with a smile.
“Spin wain?” Fajer stretched her arms out in front of her, suppressing a yawn.
“Ta3alaw rekbaw and you’ll see,” Mbarak grinned, “Yalla!”
The girls looked at one another, fear and hesitation in their eyes.
"Yalla, 3ad!" Wahab groaned, "5ayfeen min shino?"
"Nothing, bes a5af my mom calls aw Rose tig3ad itdawerna.." Jawhara tried to think of a lame excuse, but Mbarak wasn't buying it.
He shook his head and tutted, "We planned a surprise for you, may9eer you say no!"
'Surprise?' Jawhara thought excitedly. There was nothing she enjoyed more than surprises, and they were probably even better when they had to do with the sea. "5ala9, 5ala9; we're coming," she gave in.

Mbarak and Wahab were already standing in the jet boat, waiting to pull the girls in. Fajer's shorts were already soaked from the pumping tide, and the warm salt water clashed with the cool breeze. Wahab handed her a fluffy yellow towel to wrap her waist in so that she wouldn't get cold.
"Don't go too fast," she begged, remembering how they sped onto shore the first day the girls saw them.
"La t5afeen," Wahab winked, putting his shades on and driving the jet boat at a medium speed.
Jawhara watched the thick white foam form behind the boat, leaving a faint trail from the shore. She peered into the navy blue depths of the sea and a chill shot up her spine; nothing was clear at this end of the ocean - it was so deep it felt bottomless, and she imagined what kinds of sea creatures lurked below. It wasn't like anything she'd pictured when she imagined her friendly whales floating about and the hurrying lobsters - the reality seemed so sinister and scary.
Mbarak put his arm around Jawhara as Wahab bounced the jet boat off the bobbing waves. The sound of the engine roared, disturbing the calm quiet sea. Jawhara felt like telling Wahab to stop the boat; that he was scaring the ocean and it's inhabitants, when in reality, for the first time, the ocean was scaring Jawhara.

Fajer was in her own little world, enjoying the sound of the engine with her eyes closed, as if it were a yoga chant putting her at ease. The salt water sprayed on her face, invigorating her and really waking her up. "Are we there yet?" Fajer called to Wahab over the engine's loud buzz.
"Almost!" he yelled back, wiping the drizzled water from the lens of his shades.

Year Of The Lover (Pt. 13)

2008-11-04T14:04:00.001-08:00

First of all, I’d like to thank you all soooo very much for your unconditional support; especially you, Glitter. To be honest, when I wrote the first part of this story, it was just a fantasy I’ve always had about falling in love at the chalet and just being young at heart. Eventually I based it on real people that I know, but never in my life did I think it would turn out like this. You guys are everything a blogger could ever ask for, and I love you all to bits. Hope you keep coming back and enjoy reading my stories as much as I enjoy writing them.. Hugs and kisses to all of you! (L)
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Silence fell among the four of them while Wahab waited for an answer. Jawhara nudged Fajer’s side and loudly whispered, “Go! Go!”
Mbarak snorted at Jawhara and poked her back, as if to tell her to stop.
“Umm.. OK?” Fajer murmured hesitantly. She slid off of the patio ledge and slapped the white powder off the legs of her pants.
Wahab gave Mbarak an uneasy look; he was scared he’d mess things up and give Fajer the wrong impression. He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable at all; he just wanted to get to know her privately.
Mbarak tipped his head at Wahab, motioning for him to go ahead. Wahab followed Fajer onto the beach, and walked by her side in the dark silence until they were out of sight.
“Til3ab Uno?” Jawhara offered, her eyes aimlessly scoping the shallow tide.
“Baiiiih Uno! Sh’hal fa9la! Sha5bari!” Mbarak cried, chuckling at the thought of playing his favorite childhood game, “Do you have the cards?”
“Ee, they’re at the chalet; let me grab them warid,” Jawhara replied, excited. Uno was her favorite card game, and many people she came across never appreciated her love for it. During Ramadan, Fajer and Jawhara would play Uno right until the dawn prayers, with a pitcher of water and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches at their sides.
Jawhara ran to her chalet and rummaged through her weekender bag for the Uno deck, and when she found it, she sprinted back out to the beach only to find Reem strolling towards Mbarak’s chalet.
Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she felt her hands get clammy. Feet planted firmly in their place, Jawhara was unable to budge as she saw Mbarak staring blankly at the sea, waiting for her while Reem moved in like a hawk attacking her prey. The voyeuristic side of Jawhara consumed her as she stepped back to observe how Mbarak would handle Reem this time around, without Jawhara there to cushion his fall.
“Mbarak, shloonik?” Reem wiggled her fingers as she strutted in his view.

A few long seconds passed with nothing but the soft crashing of the waves harmonizing in the brisk air. As if he hadn’t heard her the first time, Reem asked again, “Mbarak.. Shloonik?” She fidgeted with the short hemline of her beach dress, pulling it down an inch to cover her smooth thighs, but only succeeding in exposing her cleavage.
Mbarak stared down at his lap and bit his tongue in fear of saying something that may give Reem the green light, or something that may be downright rude. His morals remained one of his top priorities, so instead of saying something he might regret, Mbarak reached out to Wahab’s tiny radio and switched it on, letting 3abood 5owaja’s voice serenade him. “Kil Amrin Sahil Min Doon Il-Wada3.. Kaif Ana Bawada3ak? Hallah Hallah Bil-Amana!”
He swayed his head to the tinkling melody of the 3ood, ignoring Reem’s presence until she huffed and walked away, grumbling about how “ma tisti7i”.
Jawhara’s heart swelled with joy at the faint sound of 3abood 5owaja; she sensed that Mbarak wouldn’t have turned the radio on if he was talking to Reem. She took a deep breath, letting the chilly air fill up her lungs, and then exhaled before she made her way back to Mbarak, Uno deck in tow.

She beamed at him and they sat at the plastic deck table, listening to music and shuffling the Uno cards. While Jawhara distributed the cards, Mbarak arranged them in his palm, eyeing her from the top edges. “Ba5al9ich,” he menaced, frowning at his cards.
“Dream on,” Jawhara shot back, placing a colorful card over the starter card. They played an intense game, crunching on a bowl of peanuts and slapping down their cards as quickly as they could.
“UNO!” Mbarak yelled, fanning his last card in Jawhara’s aggravated face, “Dream on, ha? Dream on!” he teased.
The game didn’t last longer than five seconds after that, Mbarak throwing down his last card triumphantly. “Ana agool isteree7ay shway, Jojo,” he laughed boisterously as Jawhara scowled.
“Hey! Not fair!” Jawhara protested, flicking a toasted peanut at Mbarak.
“It’s never fair when you lose, mama,” he smiled, “Wanna play another round?”
“You’re on,” Jawhara said confidently.

Wahab and Fajer had already walked past countless chalets, talking quietly and shyly as if they were a newly engaged couple. Wahab, Fajer noticed, had the sweetest disposition she’d ever encountered; it surprised her to no end why girls weren’t flocking to him left and right. Even after he had explained his academic situation and all of the pressures he faced, Fajer admired him more for his strength and will to keep up with his hectic lifestyle.
“It’s funny, because usually when I tell a girl about my busy life, itkish because she thinks I won’t give her the attention she wants,” Wahab slowly opened up to Fajer.
“La, ana with me, it’s the opposite. I’m not the kind of girl that depends on a guy for security. To be honest, I wasn’t even considering getting into this if it wasn’t for Jawhara,” Fajer confessed, and her face darkened with embarrassment.
“That’s what I like about you,” Wahab smiled, “I can tell you’re very genuine.”
“Thanks; min 6eeb a9lik,” Fajer pursed her lips, feeling her throat tickle, “So are you, you know. I don’t know if you do it on purpose, bes you’re not like other guys. You’re yourself; ma tit9ana3.”
“Thanks, Fajoor,” his warm smile turned into a sparkling grin.

They detoured off the damp sand and onto the tiny islands that the vanished tide had formed, splashing through the shallow pools and scuffling through the wet sand.
“A crab! Allaaah!! Gubageb!” Fajer cried as a murky green crab scampered across the wet sand and disappeared into a crab hole.
“A5aiiiiih 3ad tadreen shino yabeela? Tegember!” Wahab reminisced about his younger years, when he and his brothers would come to the warm beach during the summer sunsets and poke around the sand for crabs. He explained to Fajer how they would walk around like members of a gang, harpoons in one hand and a bright plastic pail in the other. “We’d each catch as many crabs as we could before the night fell, and we’d take them home and see if we could cook any for dinner.”
Fajer imagined Wahab’s childhood, a screen projecting a fuzzy movie in her mind. She smiled and told him how lucky he was to have brothers – she was an only child, which factored in her closeness to Jawhara.
“Well you have me,” Wahab said quietly.
“Yeah? Since when?” Fajer teased.
“Min ilyoom oo raye7,” Wahab blinked, the moisture glazing his eyes enhancing the twinkling glint. Fajer felt weak at the knees, and even more so when Wahab awkwardly put his arm around her while they walked back to the chalet.
Once again, a full moon smiled down at Bnaider and everyone who was there. Fajer looked up to the stars hopefully, saying a little prayer, and smiling back at the moon.

+++++ 3abood 5owaja - Hallah Hallah Bil-Amana +++++