Part 22 (1/2)
”No.” I wanted to forget about Baba, forget about what happened, for a moment.
”Imad, tell me more about the astonis.h.i.+ng text. What was it like when you saw it?”
”Beautiful like you, haha.”
”Haha, right.”
I sat with the phone close against my ear, feeling the warmth of Imad's voice trickle down into my cheeks. I liked his little jokes, they helped me to forget. I liked that he complimented me.
I pretended not to. ”Come on! What was the text like? Do you think I'll cry when I see it?”
”I don't know, Bea. That depends on you. It has gold vines around the edges.”
”It does?” Gold seemed beautiful.
”And flowers in the center that are perfectly symmetrical, like a pretty face.”
I let the phone lie. There was a warm, sleepy feeling coming over me, through my thighs and toes and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I ran a finger through my hair, which curled like Leila's hair.
”What else?” I said into the phone.
”What else, what else . . .”
I could hear Imad thinking.
”How would you kiss Leila?” I asked him.
”How would I kiss Leila? I don't know, in her hair and ears and mouth, I guess.”
”And then?”
Pause. ”Am I alone with Leila?”
I looked around at the empty kitchen.
”Yes, pretend you're alone with Leila.”
”Down her neck and her chest, and below her chest, then.”
”And how would she move?”
”With her breath first. I would feel her breath catch.”
”Would she like it?”
”I don't know, Bea, would she like it?”
There was a light airiness inside of me, like Imad's breath.
”Yes. And then?”
”I would run my hands along her lap, and put my head on her thighs.”
”And then?”
”She would breathe like you're breathing.”
”And then?”
It was growing and growing.
”She would feel what you're feeling.”
I liked what I was feeling.
”My Arabic girl,” Imad said, over and over. ”My Arabic Hair. Do you like your hair, Bea? You should.”
I didn't always like my hair. I liked what I was feeling.
”Where else would you kiss her?”
”All over, Bea. All over.”
”Until she cried out?”
”Until she cried out.”
Afterwards, I ran my fingers through my hair like Imad might, and touched my warm cheeks. We stayed on the phone in silence, listening to our breathing.
Imad said, ”You'll see, Bea. It's a beautiful text. No matter what you expect, it surprises you.”
”In a good way?”
”Sometimes in a good way.”
How did I want to be surprised? I thought I might not care, as long as it made me cry. All this time at Madame's, I'd tried not to cry; I'd been saving my tears for that text.
”Imad, has there ever been a person who you loved, and worried about?”
”Of course, all the time. What's the matter? Is someone in trouble?”
I thought of all the people I cared for and worried about, including Imad now, with his interview. And Baba, and Nisrine. What would happen to us?