We embraced. “Man,” he said, “I’m going to miss you.” I remember the shape of his ear, how my eyes focused on it. I said the words as though involuntarily: “Hamza, I am Libyan. My name is Hisham Matar. I’m the son of Jaballa Matar.” He didn’t let go. I felt his body become rigid. “I am sorry,” I said. I was not sure what exactly I was apologizing for. When we looked at each other we had tears running down our faces. We embraced again, rushed back to the bar and continued drinking. We all stayed there until the place closed. Neither of us mentioned a word to the others. He never called me
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