We are flying to Dubai tomorrow. We will spend New Year’s Eve together in a hotel. There will be rooms overflowing with silk skirts, Venetian glass, royal tapestries, decadent marble, bedspreads threaded in synthetic gold. I am no longer interested in spending time between unfamiliar sheets. We will just pass through. It will be wonderful to lose sight of the sun, to wake up when it’s about to set again.
I miss your dry, stale taste after a long night. No, I mean it. It reminds me that we are human, affected by things around us. I will get up and rinse my mouth, as if I’ve already said something inappropriate. I will swill the harsh, blue liquid from those small plastic bottles near the sink and look at myself in the mirror. I will be grateful for the soft light, the drawn curtains. You will move your body, make scratching noises against the crisp sheets with your knees, your legs. Don’t worry. I won’t forget that you’re still there.
These are our rituals. It has been five years since we left each other. Still, we keep them. We belong together. Not in a banal, daily way. We do not belong in each other’s kitchens, messy armoires, or unscrubbed bathrooms. We belong in the temporary thrill of suspended time. In school, we learned the Suspended Poems, the Mua’llaquat, devotional verses that brought Love and God and God and Love together in forms so elevated, they were ‘suspended’. This is how we remain connected. We hang over skylines and mountains, in between the square panes of hotel rooms and the wood panelling of chalets.
We are careful. You were raised to maintain a perfect profile, your status. People watch you. Not paparazzi , but people who wait for you to accidentally betray your family’s honour. This, I understand.
Do you remember when we were reading a book about Generation X in bed? “Claire and I never fell in love, even though we both tried hard,” you read out loud. I told you that this was all too Western, that it didn’t apply to us. Our parents didn’t get divorced. They stuck it out.
Your voice cracked as you continued reading. It was dry, raspy. It made me think of cheap French cigarettes, the kind cabbies in Cairo smoke to get through the night. You found more quotes, bombarded me with proof. You could never stand being wrong. It is possible to be with someone and remain detached? I asked. Your theory doesn’t apply, you said, we’ve become acculturated.
We have created our own code. Yeah, ‘nite wuz fine’. That means you met someone in a club, a bar, somewhere dark where you were sure no one would see you. ‘really busy sorry’. She’s still in your apartment and you took the Blackberry into the bathroom with you. I imagine the fluorescent lights, the light brown towels and custom-made sink. It’s the extra bathroom, on the other end of the hallway. You say that you prefer it, though you never go in there unless someone’s in your bed and you want to tell me about it.
I am more direct and excited about letting you in on my almost-falling in love. ‘M. has house in D.R., going diving’. I cling to anyone who is not you. I send you photographs. I’m in a turquoise bikini with wild fuchsia flowers smiling next to M. You write me an email: he’s cuter in a wetsuit than a ski-suit ;) I had forgotten that I sent you that other photo. It reminds that we have a history, time together, connected by digital exchanges. I immediately call you. You never pick up your phone. It’s a power move, I know.
The truth is that our conversations are always in public. We built our lives in different cities. For now it’s London and New York. Places where we can find others like us. Places where the buildings move across the horizon, unlike where we grew up in Beirut, where they just grow taller. We never talk when we are inside. It would be too intimate, remind us that the other was once there, in that room, on that sofa, staring at the same wall. This is how we survive.
I am writing you this story because I’m no longer sure how ours will unfold. It is a piece of origami, a twisted, symmetrical object made of paper. Flammable. And you warned me long ago that fire spreads fast.
I am packing to come meet you. I really am. I am folding thin dresses, black underwear, a few necklaces, in case we go out. How long will we do this? I’ve sat on, slammed, zipped so many suitcases, I should know by now that they bulge open, rip at the seams when they are tossed around by callused, careless hands.
I already know what will happen. You will have aged suddenly, lost your confidence, questioned a decision. It will be like last time we saw each other, our legs swinging from a ski lift, below, a blinding white. All around us, wires and cables keeping us safe, where we wanted to be, hanging in mid-air. Do you remember taking my hand in yours, gloved, protected and asking if I would have children with you? We’ll see, I answered.
I circle the map to our hotel once more and survey the area. There’s a pool and a five star restaurant. The driveway is circular. There’s no direct access to the street. It is hidden away, a jewel box. I send you the link. Hope you see it before you get on the plane.
I’ve spent the morning singing. I never used to do that, sing out loud. You’d tell me the neighbours can hear. I’d tell you we were far from home; we didn’t need to worry. Lately, I’ve been humming, blurting out words, entire phrases sometimes. They fill the rooms I move between.
