My Friends

by Hisham Matar

“My ideal man,” Malak said ponderingly. “I’m not sure what that means. I don’t want the ideal. I want complexity. I want passion. I want imperfection. My ideal man is not ideal. But,” she said, leaning forward, “I’ll tell you about him.” Mother was smiling. The entire room was held in attentive silence. “I want him to have lunch at home. I want him to help me with my own mind. I want him to be bookish, wise, cunning, and exemplary. I want him to be a good storyteller, and always on my side.” She paused, blushed a little, enjoying the room’s attention, but also receding inwardly, aware of her own vigor, perhaps surprised too, discovering as she spoke what she actually desired. And then, as if responding to a silent accuser within her, she said, “Yes, I suppose I am greedy,” her eyes taking us all in. At that moment, hers was the face of one engaged in the noblest of battles, when we reach for what we dream of, throwing caution to the wind.