The connection
I was visiting a friend in a Non-Arab Country, and we went out with her impotent boyfriend, his brother and his friend. They were dull people, and it was a dull city. I remembered having once read that there were no dull people, just unimaginative questioners and I started enthusiastically talking to the friend, Steve. He was a chef, and talked to me about how sandwiches did not afford a proper channel to his creativity, and complained that girls were always trying to get him to cook for them. I nodded with strained interest, and drank deeply. Everyone did. Conversation was flagging.
We went to an argileh place. The flagging conversation took a desperate turn; someone made a joke about suicide and Steve leapt from his seat and suddenly blurted out that his father had killed himself. Our loud conversation was immediately stilled.
Sometime later, we were standing on the street, possibly flirting and he said something about how I was too pretty for him, and I don’t remember what polite platitude I responded with. Looking at the ground he said, “Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.” I didn’t see anything, and in fact had no idea where to look. He pointed at his face, at which I peered while repeating that I had no idea what he was talking about. He insisted that I was making an awkward attempt to play dumb. Eventually after close examination I saw a faint scar running across his nose and cheek. He mentioned his troubled teens, a knife fight, a record, parole officers.
Nevertheless it wasn’t surprising to find myself at his place. I was drunk enough to feel that human contact, particularly of a sexual nature, was natural and even inevitable. By now, too, I was feeling that we’d shared intimate moments.
The imaginary connection was swiftly shattered when my hands felt his flabby white stomach and he proved to be a biter. Extracting a nipple from his teeth, he pushed his wobbly thin uncircumcised penis inside me and I felt very little. It was then that I remembered my handsome boyfriend. The contrast was sharp.
Afterwards I lay in his arms reluctantly wishing myself otherwhere. My reflections were interrupted by a surreal conversation: he was reading my thoughts in startling detail, forcing me to confront my guilt and disappointment, which I had wanted to keep hidden. His insight disarmed me, as did his obviously heartfelt wish that I didn’t have to leave that city, because we could have been something special (only he used a much less clichéd expression). I thought to myself: maybe. I don’t normally do damaged, but I’ve never been able to resist a man who prefers brutal honesty and strips my bullshit away. Most people politely don’t delve too deeply into what I want to hide. I return the favor, letting them draw some counterfeit emotion over their real ones when they so choose. But I always fall for the ones that don’t let me get away with it.
I spoke to him on the phone once or twice after I went back home. It was never going to be anything, and I had cheated, but I didn’t regret the experience. For a moment or two I felt known and understood, and with such unutterable gentleness that I was exposed, relieved.
