As I rolled the cigarette over in my delicate fingers, I thought of Mahmoud. I thought of how the cigarette would’ve looked in his hands, his strong, capable hands, as opposed to my dry, quivering ones. Jesus, I could barely hold on to it. But my brain had no problem holding onto the idea of him; in fact, the problem was in thinking of anyone, anything, else. Earlier in the night, when I was wasted but not so wasted, I thought I saw him. He looked at me...and looked at me. He didn’t blink, he didn’t open his mouth or raise his hand, he just stood there. My head lolled to the side, my eyes fixed on the deep velvet sky. When I mustered up enough strength to look up and beckon him over, he was gone. Something in my head told me to go look for him, but the better part of me just said to stay put and smoke my cigarette.
The night went on and my head filled up with smoke, rum, and images of Mahmoud. I remembered vaguely how it felt to press against him and feel his warmth seeping into the permanent ice cold of my skin. He knew he could melt me; he never missed the opportunity to show it. I remember fondly the time when he was painting his kitchen wall, shirtless. I liked his ragged painting tee, but I was liking the alternative more, a bit too much more, maybe. Sitting quietly on a painting stool, resting my chin in my palm, I could only stare. I could see the muscles as they worked, rippling and stretching. Those were the same muscles he used to hug me, to stroke my hair, to pinch my waist. He had wiped at the thin film of sweat collected on his forehead, replacing it with a smudge of red paint. I stood there laughing, clutching my stomach as he tried in vain to wipe the paint off, only succeeding in smearing it all over his forehead and cheeks. When I was finally able to catch my breath, I didn’t have time to say a single word of protest before my face too was covered. Splat! a big glob of “Cranberry Zing” right on my forehead, slowly dribbling down onto my nose and cheeks. That was it. It was war.
As I wrestled recklessly, trying to find his weak spot, he was very careful not to place his hands anywhere for too long that would make me think anything he didn’t want me to. I knew this because at one point he had his hands on my upper torso, right below my breasts. I looked at his hands; I looked at him; he looked at me. His dark cheeks had turned a shade redder before he quickly flipped me off of him and began tickling me. What did he want? Well, I knew what he didn’t want. I knew what he didn’t know I wanted. He thought something completely different of the two of us and our relationship, or at least he acted that way. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wanted otherwise, to try to steer him otherwise. He had strong convictions about this sort of thing, and if I wanted to always keep him close, I would be wise to go along with it. But I wasn’t happy about it. So I drank a lot, and I smoked a lot.
Now here I was, finishing my third cigarette, choking down my fifth rum and coke, but where was he? Not only was my head swimming, it was drowning. Still, I thought I could find him through the haze. I thought I needed to find him. Where had he wandered off to? Hadn’t I clearly seen him looking at me earlier in the night? I was determined to find him, and show him exactly what he was missing. He couldn’t go like this and expect me to pretend it didn’t mean anything to me. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t mean anything to him.
Who the f*** does he think he is? Now, my mind and body was telling I was angry. I usually don’t get angry when I’m drunk, but this was something else, wasn’t it? It was anger masking the heavy sadness and confusion that my heart felt. This boy whom I loved was using me, I knew it. Boys never lead you on for no reason.
When I stumbled over the threshold into the kitchen, a wave of stench--alcohol and sex--hit me. The smell of sex always reminded me of Mahmoud, even though we never did it. I just thought about it, a lot. I knew he could never be with me; I’ve always known it. Maybe he had wanted to at some point. Maybe he still does. Sometimes, when we were alone, watching a movie, or just talking, I could catch him looking at me softly, and I wondered if maybe he really did love me, and he was just trying to protect me from something. But what could that something possibly be? I was willing to throw caution to the wind; I loved him that much, and I was unable to wrap my head around anything except the concept of being with him. I couldn’t walk, but if I thought about his confident stride, I could manage to stumble forward a few steps at a time. I couldn’t talk, but if he were here, I would tell him everything there was to know about me and him. We were lovers, after all. At least, I seemed to think we were.
But he never touched me. At least, not in the ways I wanted, the ways I was craving after so damn long. I just wanted his fingers to actually follow through with their teases, to follow the path of the bridge of my nose, down between my breasts and the space between my ribs, stopping only to recognize my belly button, to tease me. I was fine with being teased, as long as he still followed through. He never did. I felt the passion, but not physically. He never kissed me, he never even grabbed my a**. Not that it would’ve been like him to do that, but needless to say, I would not have minded. Even the slightest inkling of a flirtatious gesture would be enough for me. I just didn’t understand how he could act like he loved me, and go through all the motions, and buy me presents, and take me out to dinner, but never admit to having any feelings towards me, never even kiss me. Needless to say, it was more confusing than I could handle, especially with all the rum slowing down my thought process.
Breaking out of my inner thoughts, I decided to take a walk. Maybe, I thought, I hoped, I could find Mahmoud wandering around. I tipped back my glass only to find that it was empty. I realized later that I had been standing there for quite some time, drinking and thinking about him, breathing in the thick stench of “Bacardi” and those who used the persuasive elixir as an excuse to have sex. The blurry lens over my eyes refused to allow me to find any sort of substance to refill my glass. Defeated, I slowly turned around, being careful not to fall.
Suddenly, the condensation still dripping from my glass became too much for my fingertips to handle. As if in slow motion, the glass slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a startling crash.
“What’re you doing here?” I slurred. I couldn’t believe it. He was there, right in front of me. Just like before when I saw him, or thought I saw him, he was unmoving, unblinking. He was only staring. I looked around to see what he was looking at, but when I turned back, his eyes were fixed on me.
“I have to tell you something.”