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“What are you looking at?” “You,” he says, walking toward me.
His lips are delicate against mine, and warm. And sweet. As we’re kissing, he removes my hair tie from my hair, making all my hair fall against my back. He then brings it to his wrist, wearing it.
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Love, first love, falling in love, being in love, unrequited love, making love—it all hurts tremendously.
“Let me be inside of you and fuck you. I beg you,” he begs.
“That”—I point at it, almost as if I were disappointed—“will never fucking fit.” “That”—he points at mine—“will welcome me like I was custom built to be inside of it,” he says. “It will fit perfectly.”
“I will be gentle, love.”
“Call me by my name.”
“Aug-Augustine.” He breathes out, moves his hand to hold my chin, and closes his eyes. “Once more.” “Augustinus,” I repeat quietly.
The man who’s laying me down again and is now on top of me, still feeling me up and lustfully kissing me. As if he can’t get enough and doesn’t want to. As if he’s set on savoring every inch of my skin.
“Leaving so soon, love?” he asks.
“I’m just no good with words,” I say, blowing out air. “Aren’t you an aspiring therapist?” he asks.
“You were too what?” “A virgin.”
SHUTTHEFUCKUP
When I would impatiently wait to get home, pass on dinner with my coworkers. Because I wanted to see you, all the time.
Kristina, you are my sanctuary. The one I find myself always drawn to. You are my first love. My only love. I have never wanted anyone before, and I know I will never want anyone else. I have never felt this way. You make me feel things I didn’t know could be felt. I want you emotionally and physically, body and soul. Everything.
“Can you create desire?” She is touching me. Create? This is my desire. You are my desire.
I wanted to keep holding her that night, hold her until she woke up again. So I could make sure that she went through it without distress, guarding her from the terrors of the night.
☹️☹️☹️☹️
It pains me to see her in pain. I never want to see her cry again. If I can prevent it, I will. I will deal with anyone who hurts her. Kill those who hurt her to the extent of her hurting herself.
“I will be gentle, love.”
To me, you are a goddess sent from heaven itself. And I would grovel and worship at your feet if only you would let me.
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You are my favorite map, the one I would love to navigate through daily.
“I-I’m sorry. Can we please just go back to normal?” Jesus, I don’t fucking want that. I am in love with you, my wife. It’s only natural. I can’t believe I’m not allowed to, that you won’t let me. That fucking contract—I regret it. If only I had known back then, I would have never signed the damn thing.
while I search for a hair tie until I see one around his wrist. I point at it. “Give that to me.” He puts his hand behind him, hiding it. “No, this one is mine.” “What do you mean, yours? It’s my hair tie. You took it when—” Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence. He gloats. “When?”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” I turn to look at him through only my eyes and lift one eyebrow. “Or else?” “Or else I’ll fuck you so hard that they’ll be stuck at the back of your head, unable for you to ever roll them again.”
He grabs a box. “We also need some avocados, so I can make you sushi again.”
He stops walking and bows down to lean with his elbow on the cart handle, supporting his temple with his fist. He’s smiling. A little too satisfied. I exhale, frustrated. “What is it now?” “You remembering all the little things, even when you supposedly don’t care about me, makes you all the more attractive.”
“You’re good with children,” I tell him. He tilts his head to face me. “Is that a fact?” “Yes. Maybe you should have some of your own someday.” “Will you make them with me?” “Are you asking me to sleep with you?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m asking whether you want to have children with me. Don’t confuse the two, love.”
How is a man’s opinion of my body more valuable than my own? How is following some stupid cultural norm about my own body more important than my say, than my own mental health?
He’s actively making sure that I can’t ignore it by groaning every thirty seconds. I’ve counted. Four times. Exactly every thirty seconds. I swear he must be timing it.
She was focusing on how to change things instead of crying about it. I envy her.
He sniffles against my ear. I turn my head around, only to find him sleeping. And crying. A tear is rolling down his face. As he holds on to me, I turn my whole body around to face him. I wipe away the tear with my finger and hold him back. Somehow along the way, I’ve started to feel safe in his presence, even behind closed doors.
“Augustine, what did you do?” “I marked what’s mine.” “I’m not.” He groans. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I love them just as much.” As much? As much as what?
“Kristina?” “Augustine?” “Be my girlfriend.”
“Full stomach, happy heart, love.” That’s his mantra.
“Bil hana w shifa,” I tell him. “Shokran, love, you too.”
“You’re worried about the car and not yourself?” “Of course I am. This thing must be worth a ton.” “Adorable.” He leans over to kiss the top of my head. “And you are of innumerable worth.”
I just needed this. Comfort. Support. Encouraging words. I needed someone accepting my fears rather than invalidating them because they don’t understand them, because they can’t imagine having them. Him. I needed him.
“We’re going,” he says. “No. You’re going,” I tell him. He bows down, grabs me, and throws me over his shoulder. “No, we are going.”
“It does to me,”
“That was—”
He throws himself at me and stands up, taking me with him. To hug me even tighter. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.
You can’t kill one bird twice, right? That’s not how the saying goes. And you adore sayings.” “I adore you.”
She pats his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Del.” “Call me habibi to make up for it.” She chuckles. “I’m sorry, habibi.” He tugs at the end of her sleeve and kisses it. Not her, just the fabric. They never kiss. They barely even hug.
“You watch Disney movies?!” “All the time with Marina.”
“You’re crazy.” “Crazy about you.”
Adam turned out to be comfort. And after a long time, so did Augustine.
When you’re anxious, you’re unaware that you play with the beads of your ring. When you’re sad, you’re in your room, wiping away your tears with Lady. When you’re happy, you go to that coffee shop next to our house with all your notebooks and books. And when you’re confused or angry, you go to the pub to drink wine.
I can’t read your mind. Believe me, I wish I could, but the truth is that I just know you too well. I always pay all my attention to you.
