LIGHT YEARS

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.

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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

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.

1992

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!

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

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.

Sheepskin

"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.

I Wish I Was A Fly..

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.

Sweet Summer Heat

The ripe sunset-orange mangoes sat bunched in Tala's ceramic fruit bowl, the one that her cousin had gifted to her the day before her wedding. She read the inscription on the inside of the rim, tracing her fingers along the textured glazed paint: "To endless days, nights, and meals filled with love - Congratulations!". Tala smiled at the bold lettering, pressed her index finger to her plump lips, and touched her cousin's name. This very bowl brought her comfort every time she stepped in the kitchen; every time it was in her eyesight. The word "love" seemed to stand out more then the other words, making Tala's heart wince with pain at the thought of 7amad's recent abandon and neglect. 'Dawam,' he would sigh with exasperation every time she asked to go out with him, or tried to have a romantic evening alone. As a newlywed, asking her mother for advice was only necessary in the most crucial situations - Tala knew that her mother would very well brush off her childish complaints with a stream of retaliations - "Hatha rayal, ya 7abeebti; yeshte'3el 3ashan yi3ayshich ibra7a! La ta'6qe6een 3alaih!" her mother would say sternly.
Tala picked up a small mango - almost the size of her dainty hands - and examined its glowing leathery skin. Not a blemish in sight; not a single spot to soil it's organic beauty. A shade of red blushed itself against the crown of the orange hued mango, reminding Tala of the regality of mangoes. She pictured warm summer evenings in India, with a maharaja and his doting wife seated on plush cashmere pillows in the open air, and a silver bowl of red mangoes in between them. They would enjoy the mangoes as well as each other, lovingly and carefully, while they waited for a fresh breeze to pick up and cool them down. The sweet fumes made their way into Tala's nose, and she inhaled them far into the depths of her lungs, trying to capture the sweet scent and it’s imagery for as long as it would last.

Just then, 7amad burst through the main door and hollered "Salam" to whoever was listening, stripping Tala of her thoughts. His raspy voice echoed against the stark walls of their barely furnished villa, startling her. The firm mango escaped the grasp of her smooth hands, landing on the wooden table in an audible thud. 7amad turned his head to the sound in the kitchen, leaving Tala in awe at the sight of him. He had a tendency of doing that; the way his head would whip at the slightest sound, the way his large chestnut eyes would widen at the simplest things, and the way his pouty lips would curl into a devilishly sexy smile made Tala fall in love with him over and over again.
"Manga? Mino yayib manga?" 7amad smiled excitedly at the sight of the flushed fruits, bunched together in the bowl like a pan of gold nuggets. He hurriedly strode towards Tala, planting a hasty kiss on the side of her face.
"Ana," she replied half-heartedly. "Shloonik?" She watched him with eagerness as he plucked the biggest mango from the bunch and compared it to the size of his hand.
"Tamam; ma'3sooleen?" 7amad asked, satisfactorily rubbing the mango’s silky skin.
“La,” Tala replied as 7amad picked another mango up from the bowl. The word “love” was now in full view, bolder than ever, unveiled by the two mangoes that sat in 7amad’s palms. “Tawni yaybat’hum.”
“Mashkoora, Toota,” 7amad called over the rush of the faucet water. He ran his sun-kissed hands over the mangoes, quickly enough to wash them thoroughly as well as to enjoy them sooner. The mangoes, tightly tucked into the crevices of his palms, glistened with beads of cool water, like full breasts rising from a swimming pool. Without drying them, he adoringly brought them to his face and inhaled their scent, now magnified by the water’s touch.

Tala watched with envy as she set the table; two round plates, a large steel knife, and a two small spoons. ‘Why is it that he is so enticed with mangoes; so eager to touch them and to smell them while I – his wife – am standing here waiting for some sort of appraisal?’ she thought angrily. The stainless steel knife gleamed in the corner of Tala’s eye, luring her to pick it up and stab each and every one of the Alphonso mangoes so that 7amad could never enjoy them again. But, like a cruel joke or a painful reminder, the word “love” screamed at Tala again. ‘Love, honor, and obey,’ she would remind herself at her weakest moments. ‘Love, honor, and obey.’
He turned around from the sink, holding the orangey treasures with such care. The placed each mango onto a plate and drew back Tala’s chair as well as his, motioning for her to sit. “Taw innaas; al7een mo mawsem ilmanga!”
“Madri, 7amadi,” Tala replied with a shrug, and reached over for the giant knife, ready to butcher the fruit that had captured the ardent affection of her husband.
Before the sharp blade could graze the surface of the matured mango, 7amad pried the knife out of Tala’s hands and placed it back onto the wooden table. “Ib eedich,” he instructed, picking up the dense fruit with his two hands and tearing a small hole at the puckered tip with his teeth.
The pale orange mango pulp peeked out from under the scarlet flesh, coaxing 7amad’s lips closer to the cavity. In rhythmic movements, his thumbs tenderly massaged the side of the mango, pushing the pulpy nuggets towards the tear in the flesh. Tala watched as 7amad’s lips sucked the meaty sweetness into his mouth, chunk after chunk, careful not to let any bit of the mango escape. The bright juice trickled down his scruffy chin and dribbled down the sides of the mango’s flesh, twirling streams around his thick fingers and down his palms. Tala watched with great intent, her mango sitting patiently on her plate, as 7amad continued to bite and suck and tear at the mango’s skin with such ardor and want – she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. He scraped every last bit of the mango pulp off the skin with his teeth, gently tugging the soft tissue against his dentures.

After 7amad had satisfied his craving, he licked the syrupy lattice of juice from his hands and fingers before reaching for a wad of tissues. “Ma kalaitay,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head at the untouched mango on Tala’s plate.
“Al7een,” Tala replied quietly, her cheeks turning a faint crimson. The nervousness-induced warmth of her hands clashed significantly with the icy cold water droplets that decorated the mango like crystals. Just as she was about to bring the mango to her lips as 7amad had done earlier, 7amad encased her hands with his and guided the mango safely to Tala’s hungry lips. Her big brown eyes pierced through 7amad’s eyes warily, trying to decode whatever mischief he was up to. With her eyes still locked onto his, she tore a bit of the mango skin away from the top with her teeth. She felt a bit of the juicy fruit make it’s way up into her mouth, thanks to 7amad’s gentle pushes. As soon as it entered her mouth, 7amad pulled the mango into his own hands and dove in for a long, passionate kiss. His tongue stroked hers, probing her mouth in search of the luscious lump of mango he knew was nesting in there. The sweetness of his lips, tainted with the traces of an early afternoon cigarette, mixed with the tropical taste of the fruit, and once found, they shared it between their warm mouths.
He brought the limp mango near Tala’s lips once again. The intensity of their kiss caused 7amad to squeeze on the mango’s body a little too hard, first causing a gush of viscous juice to spill along the feminine curves of Tala’s lips. The fragrant syrup ran down the groove of her chin and the length of her neck, pooling at the small hollow that formed at the top of her ribcage. A tiny cry of shock and delight escaped her throat, but 7amad quickly muffled the sound with the crashing of his lips against hers. His tongue traced the faint orange line that swept down her neck, and softly lapped up the sweet pulpous juice before it dried into a sticky mess. Tala reclined against the back of the wooden chair, craning her neck every which way in order to allow 7amad access to the most inconspicuous places. Another reckless squeeze of the fruit tore the opening into a wide gash, causing the bright orange shaggy pit to sail out of the mango skin pouch and onto Tala’s chest, where 7amad tried to catch it.
“7amad!” Tala squealed like a child, suppressing the uproarious laughter that she knew was to come. The pit slipped out of his fingers like a wet bar of soap, but he tried again, this time succeeding in keeping it in his grasp.
“Shhhh,” 7amad soothed Tala’s giddy fit, shushing softly in her ear. With the wet pit in his hand, he rubbed Tala’s neck and exposed chest, staining her fair skin with mango residue. The pit glided over her skin until she was swathed with fiery-colored mango pulp, and they both breathed in the heady mango scent that wafted off of Tala’s skin. Like a golden sun goddess aching to be worshipped, Tala melted at the feel of 7amad’s touch, succumbing to his every desire. Normally, she would never allow 7amad to mix passion and food, as she was taught that it was a sin to use food in an erotic manner. But today, she gave way, letting his lips gather the shards of mango mash that tickled her skin. Tala opened her eyes for a moment during her escapade, eyeing the ceramic bowl that sat on the kitchen table, laden with more mangoes for the days to come.

Sorry everyone..

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..

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!