This Poet of Yours
“Why did you run away?”
I was in the kitchen with Hayat, making a fruit salad. Hayat was beating eggs because Ahmad wanted balaleet for dinner. Musayd was playing with his ninja turtles on the white ceramic floor. It was a normal life, a nice life. I was living at Hayat’s house and it was like being in the heart of the world. Musayd calls me “Aunt Fatima.” I’m his aunt, a sister, an organic part of this place. I have a family.
I was preoccupied with pulling grapes from the bunch and tossing them into the bowl.
“Why did you run away, Fatima?”
Her question caught me off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Her glance went through me and she read my thoughts so well I felt embarrassed. I averted my eyes.
“I don’t want to get into it,” I mumbled.
“Coward.”
She said it with that mocking tone. After all these years, she was still doing her job provoking me.
“Shut up!” I said, throwing a grape at her.
She caught it in her hand and tossed it into her month, laughing. I didn’t laugh. I grabbed the knife and sank it into an apple: open-heart surgery. My body burned hot under the cotton shirt.
“Ask me about him. I know you want to know how he’s doing.”
I moaned. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been four years. Neither of us are the same.”
“No harm in asking.”
“Fine!”
I pulled the knife out of the apple, then plunged it back in anxiously.
“Did he get married?”
“No.”
The mountain moved from my chest and the weight dissipated. I smiled. “No?”
“No.”
Hayat laughed. She laughed at the rapid shift in my expression.
I put the knife and the apple down. My voice softened. “What does he do?”
“Arabic teacher.”
“Really?”
“He’s still in the writers’ group.”
“Does he write?”
“He didn’t stop.”
“Has he published anything?”
“Some poems. In al-Qabas, al-Rai, and Asharq al-Awsat. I saved all of them.”
“A book?”
“Not yet.”
“What else?”
“He wants to see you.”
My mouth went dry. My body shook. I was bold and asked, my question terrifying: “Does he know I got married?”
“He’d expected as much.”
“Did you tell him?”
“The whole story.”
“When?”
“After we met the first time, you and me. I met him and told him about you.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me in that way, as if he wanted to draw every word out of my mouth.”
“That’s everything? He didn’t say anything at all?”
“He said, ‘When can I see her?’”
I smiled again, and it wasn’t a half-smile. Hayat smiled. Existence expanded in her smile, expanded like a smile. The world is broad and arched.
“What are you trying to say?”
“He’s called twelve times since you moved here. He sends forty messages a minute. He’s a real pain, this poet of yours.”