In The Meantime

14 تشرين الأول 2016 الساعة 12:20

In The Meantime

 

I must feel something.

Anything.

I haven't washed my hair in over a week. The fat around my belly is torturing me.

I have lost my sense of style.

I am not living a story. That, in itself, is a great punishment.

I live my days in a haze. Moving from one activity to the other. Aimlessly.

I am not living a story.

Haven't lived one in quite some time.

People around me have started to weigh on my chest.

To fall in love at this stage of my life would be a gift.

Fall in love with anything.

Live a story again.

To find a reason to wear my high heels.

To splash on my Chanel numero 5.

To buckle up my suspenders.

To smile like I really mean it.

Maybe this afternoon I will make time to go to the hairdresser.

I do so many things in one day.

Yet, I do not feel anything.

I want to fall in love.

With anything.

Maybe I should start with myself.

I wake up very early and I get dressed without intention.

Grab my cup of espresso from the grocery shop in our building.

I sip it slowly whilst driving to work.

As I get nearer and nearer to the newspaper where I work since over 22 years, I decide to take a ride towards the October Sea on the Corniche of Ain El Mreysseh.

People all along the legendary pavement overlooking the sea are practicing their morning rituals.

With ease.

With intention.

I want to be with them.

Yet, I cannot find the motivation.

I am not living a story.

I take sips of my espresso.

Small sips.

I feel my hair with my other hand.

I leave the steering wheel for a brief moment to feel my ugly hair.

I have pulled it back the way I usually do when I am not living a story.

I have let myself gain weight.

Four kilos to be exact.

They are resting inside my belly.

I am not living for anything.

Yet, everything is going smoothly in my life.

Lately I have been leading a healthy life.

No turbulence.

No anxiety.

No drama.

No story.

That in itself is enough to kill me.

Maybe I should take a lover.

Give in to pleasure.

No.

It is too boring.

I must live a story.

People are living their stories on the cornice.

Later on, they will go back to reality.

I can never go back to reality.

I must always live there.

Where life unfolds in chapters.

Who will my next lover be?

What will my next story look like?

If I am condemned to an ordinary life, then I prefer to peacefully dissolve into my dream world.

The last sip of my espresso makes me sad.

It will be hours before I take my usual glass of white wine. Tamed with a few ice cubes.

I shall lie beneath my lover, when he enters my life, and I shall tell him stories.

Beautiful stories I have lived whilst waiting for this one.

I shall torture him before I allow him to give in to desire.

He shall experience my anguish and torment and nothingness.

All the frightening unexplainable feelings that engulf me when I am not living a story.

He must pay for all the waiting I had to endure before he came along.

Maybe I should take any lover.

Then, if I do, I shall not torture him.

I shall not punish him.

For he will not be my story.

I shall treat him with polite kindness.

And I shall love his body with pity.

No.

That is too hurtful.

I cannot do this.

I must wait for my story.

Wait for my lover.

The one destined for the next phase.

The next chapter.

I shall patiently wait for him.

In a few hours I will be allowed my glass of white wine.

And perhaps, later in the afternoon, I shall pay a visit to the hairdresser.

I touch my belly fat.

Perhaps later I shall also join the gym next door to my house.

It will all be worth it when the time comes and I am allowed to thrust my high heel on his neck.

When he decides to show up.

And then, of course, I shall wash my hair regularly.

One hundred crunches.

I shall then do one hundred crunches per day.

A few of them whilst lying on top of him.

 

يلفت موقع النهار الألكتروني إلى أنّه ليس مسؤولًا عن التعليقات التي ترده ويأمل من القرّاء الكرام الحفاظ على احترام الأصول واللياقات في التعبير.



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