I SIT BESIDE RAMI on the large sofa in the living room of Salem’s home, surrounded by his wife, son and daughter.

“Everyone is talking about us…” Salem trails off and glances across at Rami but ignores me. Rami doesn’t meet his gaze; he stares vacantly out the window. Several children are playing street hockey. Salem clears his throat, then continues, still ignoring me and looking at Rami, who stares down at his hands now. “Ya sharmout," he curses. “You bring this into our family. Shame on you!”

“He’s not a slut," I mumble. Salem casts a look of disgust at me. He nervously taps his right foot on the floor.

After a few seconds, he sits still and says, “What you have together is sick. It’s not normal, Rami.” He leans across, touches Rami’s knee and says gently, “It’s not too late to forget the whole thing. Go out and find a nice Middle Eastern girl. There are plenty who want you. You’re not an ugly boy.”

“He’s not a boy," I correct Salem. “He’s a man.”

Salem smiles unevenly and rubs his hands together. Then he hollers, “Yes, he’s a man! And you’re a man. It’s not fucking normal for two men to be together.” Neveen and Boulos sit quietly on the couch beside their mother. “You’ve corrupted my nephew. You’ve made him gay.”

I squeeze Rami’s hand and notice Salem glaring down at our entwined hands. I assert, “We love each other.”

“He deserves a wife and children. Not you. Not this sickness you’re giving him," Salem finally says.

I say bitterly, “Being queer is not contagious.” I get up and turn to Rami. “Come on, let’s go. It was a mistake coming here.”

Rami rises.

Salem suddenly leaps up and grabs onto Rami’s wrist. “Don’t you dare leave with this fucking queer! I’m your uncle! If your father were still alive, he’d be so ashamed of you," he shouts, tightening his grip.

The others lower their eyes.

“Let him go!” I say, struggling to loosen his grip on Rami.

“Uncle, let me go," Rami says in a quiet, unsteady voice. A few seconds later, Salem obeys and lets his hand fall to his side.

Rami rubs his wrist.

Salem slumps down on the sofa again and clasps his head. “We need to talk alone, Rami. Stay. We have to try to work this out.”

Yallah, Rami," I say, almost pleading, now standing on the porch.

He looks at me and whispers in Arabic, “I need to talk to my uncle. Let me try to make things better with my family. They’re all I got here.”

“What about me?” I ask, rather harshly.

“You know what I mean, Amir. Don’t be upset. We’re only going to talk.”

“Do whatever you want.” I rush down the steps and briefly turn to see Salem standing on the porch now with a large smirk on his face. He pats Rami’s arm and guides him back into the house.

As I walk on the street towards the restaurant, I look down at my watch and realize I’m an hour late. My thumb is still sore. I now wonder if I should’ve come into work at all. How am I going to wash the dishes with one hand? Before I can contemplate this, the owner calls out my name from the back door, which he holds open for me. I walk inside. He asks me about my thumb and I tell him it’s a little sore.

“Can you still work?”

“I think so," I lie.

My boss doesn’t say anything for a while, just rubs his moustache. He has a thick moustache and he has a habit of curling it with his huge fingers when he’s nervous. I try not to focus on his moustache but I can’t help but notice how much he’s twirling it.

I finally say, “Is everything all right?”

“Salem says you’re trouble.”

Here we go again, I think. “I come into work every day even when I’m not feeling well. I don’t take a full lunch hour. I don’t complain. I work. I work hard.”

He raises his right hand in the air, palm facing me. “I know. But the other cooks don’t feel…” He clears his throat. “Salem and the others don’t feel comfortable working with you. They’ve been here for years. Customers love their cooking. I can’t afford for the cooks to be unhappy. I rely on them.”

“And me? I’m dispensable?” I say scornfully.

Frowning, my boss says, “What’s this word? Speak easy English, Amir. I’m not as smart as you are.” He looks down and plays with his moustache some more.

“You think my job is nothing, that washing dishes isn’t important. Do you think customers want to eat on dirty dishes and lift food with utensils that are stained and sticky? No. I’m as important to this restaurant as those cooks are.”

“Anyone can wash a dish but not everyone can cook.”

Speechless, I cast my eyes down and think he’s right. “Well, I won’t quit.”

“I’m not asking you to quit.”

“You’re firing me?”

He doesn’t reply right away. After a few seconds, he says, “You can get unemployment. I’ll mark your papers that you were laid off.”

“This isn’t right. You know that.”

“The cooks are saying you’re queer," he finally confesses.

“I don’t know anything about that," I mutter.

“Amir," he says, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re a good boy. I don’t care what you do with your personal life. But it’s too bad you can’t find a nice Lebanese girl and settle down. You’re thirty now, right? Well, at your age, I was already married and had two kids. Things would be a lot easier if you’d just…” He pauses.

“What? Find a wife and have children? Marriage isn’t for everyone.”

“For us Lebanese, it’s everything.”

I sigh and push his hand away from me. “Give me my papers.”

“Okay, wait here.”

“You should be careful, Amir," one of the old cooks suddenly says. “Salem can be a dangerous man.”

“But I’m trouble, remember? Isn’t this why I’m losing my job? I make all of you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, no," the man says quietly. “Only Salem feels this way.”

At that point, the boss returns to the kitchen and hands me my paperwork. I don’t thank him just slam the back door wide open against the stucco of the building. I don’t turn around even when the boss calls out my name and says if I need anything to let him know.

The wind is warm as I make my way down the streets of Montreal. It’s only ten in the morning and I’m not sure what to do with myself. For the first time in my adult life, I have nowhere to go. No classes, no job, nothing. I wander through the subway station for a bit, rest on a bench and people-watch. Everyone is rushing. Some wear business suits, others are more casually dressed with knapsacks over their shoulders, coffee cups or newspapers in their hands. They walk with purpose and determination. I sit calmly on the bench with my arms spread out, resting on top and tapping my hands to the tune of a popular French song that plays on the speakers of a coffee shop across from me. When the morning crowd slows down, I get up and buy a drink from that shop, then walk back up the stairs leading outside. I blink my eyes. The morning light is overwhelmingly bright and I look into the distance and see the sunrise change from a mandarin tint to a yellow hue. I stand there for a second until a man bumps into me. Some coffee spills on my shirt and I curse. He doesn’t apologize but keeps going, briefcase in hand swinging at his side. I keep standing there and staring at the sun. It’s so peaceful, I think. After a while, I start walking again. I walk along Sherbrooke Street until I reach McGill. Some students are sitting outside, chatting with each other or reading alone. I find a bench and finish up my coffee, rise to my feet and enter one of the buildings.

I stand in front of a tall lanky man. He looks like he’s in his early twenties. I tell him I’d like some information about some programs. He hands me a few brochures and application forms. I thank him, and return into the morning sun. Heading home, the warm wind pushes me down Sherbrooke Street, past tulips finally opening to spring.

Later that evening, there is knocking at the front entrance. I get out of bed and stumble downstairs, rubbing my sleepy eyes, and answer the door expecting it to be Ben, who always forgets his key. When I open the door, I see Rami. He’s leaning against the doorframe. By his side is a duffel bag, stuffed like a jumbo pillow. He grips the handle tightly. His face is bruised and his lower lip is bleeding. “What happened to you?” I say quickly, reaching out and touching his cheek. He winces and steps back. I help him inside, take the bag from him and notice he is limping while he walks up to my room. I help him to my bed and ease him down onto it. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.” I rush across to the bathroom and fetch a wet facecloth. I clean his wounds as he stares up at the ceiling. His eyes are red but he’s not crying. He doesn’t even move when I clean his lip, which is now swelling; he stays perfectly still. But I look down and see his fingers clenching my bed sheets and it’s obvious to me that he’s in pain.

“What happened to you?” I repeat.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just keeps staring up at the ceiling. I look up too, to see what he’s focused on, thinking perhaps there’s a spider crawling on it. Then I glance at him again and say gently, “Who hurt you?”

Finally, he lets his gaze fall upon me and clears his throat and says, “My uncle.”

I pace around the room, hands on hips, lips pursed together, my jaw clenching.

Speaking in Arabic, he says, “My uncle told me he got you fired. I’m sorry, Amir.” He pauses and swallows hard. “I’m so sorry," he repeats, his voice faltering.

“Don’t be sorry. It was a blessing in disguise.” I speak in English.

“A bles-sing? Really?”

“Another saying, my habibi," I say kindly. I stroke his bruised cheek. “Your handsome face.” He winces again.

“My uncle kick me out.”

“You can stay here as long as you like. My home is your home even if it’s only a room," I say, laughing softly. Then I remove his clothes and tuck him under the covers. I slide in next to him, put my arms around him and hold him close. I gently caress his face again. “Look at what your uncle did to you.” I sigh and shake my head.

“It okay. Ana okay. Bruise go, habibi," he says, his eyes opening and closing, fighting sleep.

“Sleep," I encourage. A few minutes later, I look down and he’s fast asleep, the moonlight gleaming on his puffy face.

The next morning I wake up and glance at the other side of my bed. Smiling, I trace Rami’s back, making sure he’s real and not a dream. I frown as my eyes fall upon the bruises that have turned a deep purplish-pink. I have a tremendous urge to confront Salem and punch him in the face, hurt him the way he hurt my lover. But I know this is pointless. An eye for an eye doesn’t accomplish anything, only more resentment and pain. Rami doesn’t need this, I think. I jump out of bed, almost forgetting I have another person next to me. Then I slow my pace and creep out of the room, down the staircase, into the kitchen. I scramble some eggs and fry some bacon strips, smiling the whole time. I wonder what my mother and father would think if they knew I had fallen in love with a man. The last time we spoke on the phone they were lecturing me about still being single. “Amir," my mother had started, “you’re almost thirty. You need to find a nice Lebanese girl. Go to church. You’ll find one there. There must be some decent Lebanese girls in Montreal. Find them. Go out. But don’t date long. You should be married in six months, a year at the most. Or better yet, come back home and find a girl here. There are plenty of women who want to move to Canada.”

Then my father had continued, “Yes, your mother is right, Amir. You can find a real nice girl here. Why don’t you come visit us? It’s been too long. You probably wouldn’t even recognize your own brother. Naji’s all grown up now. And he’s dating a nice Lebanese girl. I think they’ll get engaged soon.”

“Before you. Everyone will wonder why he’s engaged before you. Find someone soon. You’re getting old. Soon it’ll be too late," my mother scolded. “What’s wrong with you?” I had held the receiver far from my ear when their words became muddled. Somewhere between “you’re too old” and “date a Lebanese girl” I had drifted off and thought about my hesitation to find a nice woman and get married.

I carry a tray of eggs, bacon and orange juice up the stairs and into my room. Rami is still asleep, the covers half-thrown off his body. He’s naked. Standing at the door, I admire his muscular calves. I feel myself growing hard and I want to make love to him but I don’t want his breakfast to get cold. We have plenty of time for lovemaking, I think. Now it’s time to eat.

I sit across from him on the bed with my legs crossed. Elbows on my thighs, head in my hands, my body leaning in while Rami eats the food I made for him. “I’m sorry I didn’t make an omelette or something more exotic. I’m not a great cook.”

He chews on some food and talks with his mouth full. “Laa, laa, this good. I love scra-m-bled eggs. How you know?” he says slowly.

“Lucky guess.” I smile, then frown when my eyes stare at his bruises. “Does it hurt?”

“A little," he says, scooping up the eggs with a morsel of toast. “I be hann-sum again in few days.”

“I hope so.”

“Why? If I ugly, you don’t love me?” he teases.

Rubbing my chin, I say, “Hmm, I could always throw a bag over your head while we’re in bed.”

He punches my shoulder. “Inta bad!”

I laugh. “Seriously, Rami, kifak?”

Ana okay," he murmurs.

I clear my throat. “It’s not easy. Our culture can be so closed-minded.”

He switches to Arabic now. “Most cultures are when it comes to people like us. Homos, fags, queers. We’re called so many things. It’s not kind, but sometimes the world isn’t a nice place, Amir.” There is a sadness in his voice, something new, something that wasn’t there before his beating.

I look down at my hands and rub them together. “What will you do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you try to make up with your uncle?”

“I don’t know. I tried, but if he doesn’t want me in his family because I’m gay, then I guess we’re not family after all.”

“I’ll be your family.”

He rests his hand on my knee. Then he asks, “Did you always know you were gay?”

“I guess so. But when Walid raped me, I denied it even more. I thought because I had feelings for boys that was why I was raped. I know this is stupid. But I thought God was punishing me for loving boys. I almost told one of my teachers about the rape but I never did. I kept it all inside. Now when I look back at it, I should’ve told someone. But I didn’t want people to blame me.”

“But it wasn’t your fault, Amir.” Rami leans in and squeezes my knee harder. “You were just a child. That bastard took away your innocence, your confidence. You could’ve become anything you wanted but that man destroyed something in you.”

I stop and stare vacantly out the window. “Do you think it’s too late for me to become a professor?”

“No. You might have to work harder but you can do it.”

“I guess you’re right. Life hasn’t been easy since I moved to Canada. I thought I could accomplish anything here but it didn’t turn out that way. I became a dishwasher.”

“But you’re not one anymore.” He speaks in English again. “You on right track.” He smiles. “See, Amir, I learn new English saying.”

I laugh. “Soon you’ll be correcting my English.”

“Never. Ana bahebbek.”

“I love you too.” I bend towards him and kiss him gently on the mouth. He winces but doesn’t move away, lets me kiss him again, and it’s then that I know I’ve found love.