I finally managed to sort out papers, books and pictures at home, that I never had the time for, because of all other obligations around. Going through the stuff, I found a blue plastic folder with a label “EGYPT” on it. Ah, Egypt! How could I forget I was there last year? Inside the folder there was the airplane ticket, brochures from the hotel “Stella Makadi” and the tourist agency we used to see all attractions, few post cards, an empty box of chewing gums with Arabic letters and a key-holder in the shape of a heart, cut into two, with Tutankhamun’s face on it.
I sat down on the floor, seeing the little items and weakness and dizziness is what came with the memories that took me back to Egypt again. Tasting the dust from the desert, making me realize how much I miss him. The key-holder in the folder was before a full heart which someone shared with me, someone I met there. I can freely call him the lord of two hearts/mine and his/, someone who made me feel like Cleopatra.
I saw him on the first day of my arrival, in the restaurant of the hotel. He was standing with his divine body, in perfectly ironed black trousers and gleaming white shirt. The contrast of the shirt with his cappuccino colored skin
seized me for a second maybe two, until my eyes looked at his eyes and I smiled back at his smile. His face as beautiful as a man’s face could ever be, his smile destined to reach out to me.
I couldn’t feel tired after that, not after the look he gave me and the uncomfortable feeling left from the long flight was suddenly gone. Like a sleep-walker I went right to him. I didn’t say a word and he didn’t either. He took me to a free table, pulled the chair in a way so elegant so I can sit down, said “Good appetite” and left me there. Speechless, disorientated, melting down. My mind spoke “This is the man! “, my heart chimed in “You are meant to be!”, my logic asked “To be what?”. And then it all began …
Glances hidden from the rest of the people, every time I’d be in the restaurant, the signs for the feelings coming his way, the emotions on my face, my brother’s frustration about the unusually long time I’d take to finish lunch or dinner, only so I could be near him and have his eyes exploring me top to bottom, the silence filling the static with such a power. His first: “Hi! How are you?” and mine: “Great, thanks to you!”, the picture I asked him to have with me and his hands embracing my arms, together with the painful desire to never let go. The purple lotus he gave me, with a little note saying: ” I would like to take you for a walk on the beach tonight”. And silly me anxiously counting the hours, before the time to meet.
The first kiss, the way he grabbed me with wild urge and impatience as soon as I went to him. All the icons of million beautiful things that exist all over the world, passing by in my mind, when I felt the touch of his lips, when I felt his strong body conquering me … Our steps from our bare feet on the sand, our hands holding hands, his fingers touching my face and his voice constantly repeating “Gameel, gameel”, which I now /after few Arabic lessons/ know that means “beautiful”… The sea and the waves, quiet, absorbing each of our words. My inside- peaceful like never before, seeking his arms over and over again. My heart- happy, because I could feel the happiness in his heart too …
And then … the day of my departure, black day with clouds, even though the sun outside was burning the ground. No drink, no food would go down my stomach and the endless pinch inside. My everything- restless, his face not sad, extremely sad. My face trying to smile, but without success. Dozen of stolen kisses, but no words coming from either mouth. And finally the pain in his voice right before I go: “Stay, don’t go! Please, I beg you to stay!” And my silent scream: “Please don’t say that “, scared, maybe if I hear him one more time I will, I will just stay.
Rage was tearing me apart for not having the courage to face the two different worlds we are from, to try and find way for the two different religions we have to live under the same roof, to learn to respect his culture and somehow make it part of my culture without the need to fight for it .
Now after a whole year, thinking much more clearly, I wish I had the happy end for this story, but the only thing I can say for sure is that I know what we were meant to be. Together in the very, very deep end of our hearts and apart in the everyday life, where mixing two different worlds not always works out, because sometimes love only is not enough, it takes much more to success. I’m not sad and I don’t regret for any moment with him. There will be always a part of me missing him, part of me that will never loose faith in fairy tales because of him. And if I had my fairytale once for a week, then that means I can have another one for life. Right?
© 2010 Broken Sparkles