Haifa Fragments by khulud khamis

Author:khulud khamis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spinifex Press
Published: 2015-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

A few drags of hasheesh tonight—not marijuana like always—and she feels her heavy body slipping out of her and—in thin slices—sliding down towards the sheets, detaching itself from her in the process. Her body falls away, into the dim, clinging fragrance of white desire.

Giving up the possession of her body to Ziyad, knowing he will be gentle as he takes her to a whole new level. He is entranced by her passivity, her inability to control her desire for him. They are wrapped in their heat. The transition to this sublevel of elusive being is smooth, with its seductivity brushing against her, lightly breathing into her body.

Only when she abandons herself, the moment the silky waters of orgasm leave her body, spilling out in a wild eruption—only then does he start taking in the pleasure. He waits, holding back his outburst, not releasing until he feels her body has given up. He then enters her with passion.

Later, as they lie side by side, their fingers intertwined, and as she curls into his body, he whispers into her hair, “Alhamdulillah for the invention of marijuana and hasheesh. For only when you’re under their influence do you become tame. Only then can I claim you as mine.”

Ziyad holds on to her as she leaves him awake alone, stroking her hair. It is very rare that she falls asleep before him, and he takes the opportunity to study her face in the dim light of the burning candle. Asleep, her face is softer, the shadows that haunt her every waking moment have receded. He shifts his gaze to the candle, and lets his mind wander back to Maisoon’s accusations earlier. It isn’t true that he is detached from it all. How could she even think that? But then how could she think otherwise, when he doesn’t dare share what happened on that fateful bus ride back in the spring of 2003? But he couldn’t let her in on that horror, no way . . .

The twenty-year-old Mahmoud Kawasme would come to him at night, haunting his dreams, driving them out only to be replaced by nightmarish screams and howls of anguish. He could never let Maisoon into his nightmares, just as he knew that she kept parts of her own pain to herself. But the untold grief would spill out of them both when they made love, just like tonight. Breaking free from their bodies and leaving them spent.

He wasn’t good at reading people’s faces. Not that he ever made an effort. He was waiting for the 37 bus in Hadar. He remembers that he’d been annoyed because he was late for his shift in the computer lab. The racket of a group of four teenage boys, all with McDonald’s ice-creams, further irritated him. Later that day, he would try and reconstruct their faces, trying to figure out if any of those kids had finished their ice-cream. The last one of their life.

It was March. The time of year Maisoon loved most. The weather played tricks on people.

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