The Bride of Amman by Fadi Zaghmout

Author:Fadi Zaghmout
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Signal 8 Press
Published: 2015-04-10T00:00:00+00:00

Part Five

Ali

I play along with their game to avoid getting hurt

After Samir left the hotel room that night, I had a difficult few days. I missed him more than I could bear. I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like without him. At first I thought it would be better for both of us if we avoided each other. But it was only a couple of days before I started to find his absence extremely hard to bear—impossible, in fact. It was everything I could do to resist calling him, but I held out for another two days.

After four days, though, my resistance crumbled completely. I just wanted to hear his voice. I needed reassurance that he was okay. So many dark thoughts had crossed my mind, like I was trapped in a film, a thriller where in one scene after another he was always the victim. Was he okay? What if something terrible had happened to him? A car accident? What if he was ill? Did he hate me? What was he doing now? How badly had I hurt him? What if he had done something to harm himself? Or disappeared from the world altogether?

I picked up my mobile and dialled his number. My heartbeat quickened. I was agitated, impatient to hear his voice. I didn’t know if he’d answer or not. I also didn’t know what I would say if he did answer. I only knew that I wanted to hear his voice and to tell him how much I loved him and how much I missed him.

He didn’t answer. His phone rang several times and then cut off. I tried again and then a third time. No answer. I went into my room and closed the door behind me. I burst into tears and wept like I’d never wept before in my life. I felt lost, like everything around me had lost its meaning without him. Like his absence had sucked all the colour from the world around me and life had lost its sparkle. Everything assumed a hue of black, white, or grey.

I went round to his house and I held back my tears as I knocked on the door. How could I explain myself to his mother when she let me in, if I was crying? She’d be horrified. She’d ask herself, ‘Who is this man sobbing over his love for another person?’ And the other person was another man: her son.

I sat in his living room, waiting for him to come home. Slowly, slowly, minutes passed by, then hours. When he finally came in, I stood up and looked into his eyes. We were both silent. We walked towards each other without either of us uttering a sound. I held him close as tears filled my eyes. I could feel his tears falling, too. For a few moments, we both whispered to each other, “Okay, that’s it,” and “enough.” But every whisper just stirred more emotion and brought more tears. We were silent for a moment or two, until we’d both calmed down.

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