After Sean grabbed my hand, and we started to walk down the road hand in hand, my Bonneville abandoned behind our backs... we debated about what to do until rehearsals o'clock, and we decided to spend some time at a local suq... I mean, mall, because this is Denver, and sadly not Al-Quds. Y'know, to grab breakfast for lunch that he won't pay for, and to blow some money on stupid stuff while we're at it. I have already bought myself two new dresses and a shearling winter coat, and in quality of the business oriented, Palestinian person that I am, even if my boyfriend doesn't know it just yet, I negotiated the price so that the whole bundle only costed me a mere fifty bucks. Of course Sean wanted to do the caregiver and pay for everything, but I kindly told him to go fuck himself, and thankfully enough, he stuck with it, no big fuss whatsoever. I got away with a smack on the ass and a 'you're gonna pay for this, and I ain't talking about your stuff'... and straight after that 'fair warning', I went putty, and we found ourselves making out in the nearest available restroom. Only when I was leaning against the wall, his hands were into my top and our tongues were entwined, I realised how much I fucking needed him inside of me again... but we didn't do the deed on the spot, although we were both kinda well lit up. We just kissed, touched, made resolutions to find a moment to play one on one after the soundcheck... and I honestly can't wait for it. But we have a busy day ahead of us, and I decided to put a damper on my horniness for a good reason. Getting fooood, the fuel that will keep us going through yet another eventful day on the road !
We emerged back from the restroom with two cheeky grins, still hand in hand, and very fucking loved up. We took a stroll around the mall, and the second store we visited was an electronics one. Why an electronics store, you'd like to ask me? Because I am tired of eating American crap day and night, I wanna cook my own meals ... and my boyfriend's too! At least once a day! I'll even cook meat for him, if meat is what he wants! Plus, I have plans to throw a party to celebrate my success, tonight, and I really do wanna do the Palestinian host, cheerful and generous, and make delish, celebratory Palestinian food for all of my guests! I'm Palestinian from the West Bank, and even if the West Bank is not a restaurant, my 'house' can turn into a full blown restaurant, on occasion. Even if when I say 'house', these days, I mean a poolside view hotel room in the US. One day, insh'allah, all of my peeps will come to Bethlehem with me, and I'll get the fine china and the Jericho dates out for them... but until that day comes, I will be the fucking best host in the world no matter where I'll be bound, at any given time ! Mark my words !
Two hundred bucks later, I have found the portable cooker of all my dreams and fantasies, I paid it cash, under my boyfriend's horrified gaze ... but I somehow managed to keep him tame by saying that I'll cook authentic shawarma and za'atar bread for him, tonight. And oh, also by telling him that by tomorrow, after I'll get paid for my photoshoot, the money I've spent today will magically reappear in my wallet. Well not quite, the agency doesn't pay cash, and unless he gives me his bank routing number and allows a few wire transfers from a modelling agency into his account, I won't see a single buck. Still not sure whether to bring that up to him and pass as a fishy Arab thief to his eyes, because there's a chance I might as well, asking for his banking information and stuff... I just mentally scheduled the thing for later, and even thought about not bringing up to him, at all. At the end of the day, he's the person I'm the closest with, at the moment, but he isn't the only person with an American bank account I know. Actually, I am the only person with a non American bank account I know. So, I think I will ask Bessie! My queen would never, never say no, and she will never look at me and think that I'm a dishonest terrorist that wants to get to her savings. Girls stand with girls, always !
I just shrugged my thoughts off me, and I decided to do the humorous girlfriend instead: Sean was pushing the shopping cart, full of my purchases, and I was walking right beside him, hand well hooked around his forearm. We walked past a barber store, and I suggested him to go in there and get a haircut. He gave me as good as he got from me, he pointed at a hairdresser store right in front of us... and suggested me to go in there and have my hair dyed brown. Dark brown, to be precise. Then he began to chase me, I began to run 'away' from him, and we did the silly ass lovebirds all over the mall aisle for quite a bit... until he realised he couldn't run as fast as me, and he lovingly ran me over with the shopping cart. Standard Sean & Cherry. Some people around us were entertained by our antics, some of them were horrified, someone was this close to calling the security to get us kicked out of this place... so we did the smart, and decided to take shelter at a café and enjoy some much deserved breakfast for lunch. Of course, he ordered and devoured the grossest meat ever, beer, and a large side of fries. Not very breakfast for lunch-like of him, but plain lunch was what he wanted, he got it, and I love it for him. I had poached eggs, sour yoghurt, a vegetable mix that very vaguely reminded me of fattoush, and green tea. Standard Palestinian breakfast, except that my dish was lacking basic za'atar and my tea was lacking in the mint compartment... but it was good! Good good, rich, and suitable for the skinny model girl diet!
After lunch, and after I let Sean pay the bill, showing no resistance because I knew he would've chopped off a couple of my limbs if I did, we went to the bookshop, so that I could buy myself writing supplies, a textbook that I need for the university, and yet another good read in my native language, because a girl can never have enough of 'em. Surprise surprise, I found a book by the mighty, super intelligent Edward Said on the shelves, one I've read over and over again, 'Orientalism'... and I told my boyfriend that the writer of that one is originally from my same country ! I tried to get his attention and activate his curiosity about whereabouts in the world I come from with that, all over again... but needless to say, my attempt didn't go well. I just got asked if Edward Said is... from the Emirate of Syria and Transjordan, or from the Emirate of Transjordan and Syria. And I got a very sarcastic look at my lovely, Trans-jordanian peen 'tenting' inside my jeans. I lost my patience at that, cracked all shits, and left him there on the books lane, heading to checkout all on my own. And while I was flashing my credit card and sniffling because my boyfriend doesn't give two shits about me, unless we're clowning and as long as we're not talking about who I am for real, he joined me where I was, and proceeded to put his head well in the hollow of my neck. Begging for forgiveness, or the closest as it gets to that, I think. Standard Sean. Still pretty frustrated, but with a heart full of him, I proceeded to pay for my stuff, and he proceeded to load my newest purchases in the shopping cart. We left the bookshop, and now... here we are, strolling through the mall in search of the next store to raise some hell at. Or in search of a bar that makes super strong coffee, because I feel post-lunch sleepy, and I need myself some black gold therapy in order to cope with my day. And with my man, too.
'Let's play a game? It's called pick your own flowers'. Sean chimes in, cheeky smile on his lips, as we walk right beside a flower kiosk, and the inebriating scent of florals fills my nostrils. This kiosk happens to have all kinds of flowers, including my favourites in the world... white jasmines, and red poppies. A bunch of either specie is $15... it'd be $5 and negotiable back home, and that alone is enough for me not to want my boyfriend to blow any of his money on a floral present for me. I mean, I still have the roses that he bought for me yesterday, they must've been expensive, and I don't think I've got enough space on my vanity table to accommodate another vase of flowers. In and out, I dig his dedication, I live for his thoughtfulness, I really appreciate that he believes he gotta buy me flowers whenever he lets me down, I can see a resemblance in his ways and my dad's... but no, I don't think I wanna play the 'pick your own flowers' game he's just mentioned. Wa'allah I don't want to! I don't want to be spoiled rotten, I just want to be listened to, when I've got something to say. Is it that much to ask?
'Pass pass! Just gimme a kiss!' I squeal, vigorously shaking my head no, as to tell him that he gotta give up on the flowers. And that he also gotta give me a kiss, while he's at it, because I'm craving, and there's no bargaining ! As a response, he stops pushing the shopping cart, puts his one arm around my waist, and pulls me closer to him. My chest bounces against his, our foreheads touch, and he muffles a laugh half a inch away from my face. He's so beautiful when he smiles that I can even let him get away with laughing in my face. No offence taken, he means it as an act of service, I have a not very secret soft spot for him laughing in my face, and my little heart melts when he smiles prior to kissing me: he's laughing because that's what he does when he's in a righteous mood, and I love that for him. He's kissing me lovingly, his breath in my mouth and vice versa... he's smiling into our kiss, and in and out tasting like sour-ish lager beer. Very standard Sean. I'm very fucking in love with him, he's in love with me too, and I'm loving this for us.
'Babe, I think that Syria needs new diapers!' I joke, as soon as our lips part... and he begins to push the shopping cart again, one hand on the handlebar, and his other hand gently poking my waist. My joke is terrible, it's all about him pushing the cart like there's our daughter in need of a new pack of diapers on the toddler seat... and thankfully enough, he's finding it laugh worthy, instead of finding it cringe and pretty fucking scary. Good for me, I think, because I fucking love to crack jokes about us having a baby Syria, and being the most hip, yet scariest parents in the world. He's laughing some more, so am I, and both of us are looking at the bunch of happy-ish, three piece families walking past us. A coincidence ? I don't think so! I think it's much rather Allah trying to tell us that someday, the same fate of being a happy family will await us. Don't get me wrong, I don't want any other baby with Sean besides the feathered one that we've already got... but a girl can always hope that one day she will have a human baby with the love of her life, am I correct? Give me a green card and ten years of time, and I will be this guy's baby mama! We will be the most hip and most humorous parents ever, that's for sure !
'I think she needs a brother too. How we gonna call him?' He answers, hand over my tummy, and I totally crack up laughing at his words, well bent over the shopping cart. So, we have a feathered son already, a very jealous one, he's our firstborn, and he is our pride and the love of our hearts. But we also have a new entry on our little family, a beautiful, fictional, curly haired and sarcastic green eyed princess called Syria. Part Irish, and part 'Syrian'. Daddy was the one to choose her name, perhaps to pay tribute to mama's 'native' country, and by all rights, now mama can claim the privilege of choosing the name of the second born child. It's a boy, and having always wished to be the mother of a baby boy, all my life, I exactly know how I'd name my little go-getter. We're just joking, I'm aware of it, and I'm digging the playfulness... but man, I ain't joking when I say that I have very little doubts on the name I'd give to my son of the future. What can I say? I just hope that baby daddy ain't gonna find it a little too ethnic to go with his last name !
'Easy... Wahaj, like my cousin who's no longer among us!' I answer, smiling at the sole mention of the name of my beloved, martyred cousin, and forever best friend in the world. I lost him five months ago, right in front of my eyes, his blood was on my clothes and his head was on my thighs as he drew his last breath... and from that day, I've never really recovered. It's hard to recover from the loss of him, given that we were born ten days apart from one another, we grew up together, we had the same dreams... and that he was taken from us at such a young age, for no reason at all, and in my horrified presence. I can't go a single day without thinking about Wahaj, about how I had to go home and tell everyone about his death, by the hand of the same fucker who did the most horrible thing to me... and of course, also thinking about how I'd give my life to resume his, if I could. I wake up in the morning, and I feel gaped because I've no longer got my brother, and my aunt and my uncle no longer got their only son. I think about when we were kids, and our moms would bathe us together, in the water tanks on the rooftop of my family house, because water was always seized, and they had to make the most out of the very little that we had of it. I remember when we'd get back home from school, and collect tear gas shells from the sides of the road of our neighbourhood, bringing them home as if they were treasured possessions. I think about how we applied for a US student visa together, because he was supposed to be here with me, today, but he's in jannah instead. Wahaj wanted to study abroad to become a doctor like auntie Fatima, but he got shot dead two months before his nineteenth birthday, while I'm still here, and feeling like it's all so unfair on him. Truth is, I wanted to become a doctor too, following my mom's footprints, but I realised that I preferred animals over humans, after what happened to Wahaj. My mom swore she's never going to put another baby in the West Bank (not the restaurant, the landlocked, occupied and unstable region in the Middle East), but her and I have a solid agreement: whether it's gonna be me or her, breeding a baby boy first, his name is gonna be Wahaj. The original Wahaj would've been here with me, if they hadn't shot him dead, and calling my firstborn son after him is the absolute least I can do to honour the memory of one of the most precious souls I've ever encountered. Sorry baba, I love you and I would really like to call my firstborn son (don't tell Cock Soup that I didn't personally give birth to him!) after you, but Wahaj is Wahaj, and I know you'd understand and endorse of my decision !
Speaking of understanding, I think that my boyfriend has understood a few things here, but he ain't asking me a single question to save his life. The average person would've already asked me 'how old was your cousin when that happened?' or 'is it true that y'all Syrians marry within cousins, and that the male cousin can have up to four wives?' or 'how did he die, exactly?', but Sean is no average person, he's clueless and unwilling to make it better for himself, and he just doesn't ask stuff. He most definitely doesn't ask serious stuff, ever, and this time makes no exception to the rule. He's just pushing the shopping cart, keeping his arm well hooked around my waist, and keeping me still on my feet while he's at it. And last but not least importantly, he's telling me that he's sorry (for my loss I think) over and over again, like he's apologising for something that he hasn't done himself. That, while I'm staring at the tip of my Dior slippers, and my eyesight getting blurry because I reckon I'm getting tearful again... for the second time today. But I can't let that happen. I don't wanna let that happen. I just want to enjoy this fucking day, one adventure and one silly skit at a time, like I was until I decided to crack that fucking parenting joke. But I've cracked it, I've cracked it out loud, it somehow turned into something different ... and there's no turning back from that. Just a little truce of the verbal kind, because Sean is staying oddly silent through this, and for once in his life, I'm blessing him for his discretion.
'You've got a good fucking heart in there, Cher'. He chimes in, putting a hand over my heart, and lifting my head up by the chin with a little bit of help from his thumb. I crack a half smile, I smooch his lips, and I store his words in the innermost folder of my aching, aching and wounded heart. I don't know if it's a 'good' heart, like he's oh so confidently saying, I just know that my last name means 'good' in my native language ... but in and out, I feel like I want to believe him. Such a compliment, coming from a person with a heart just as 'good' as mine, if not better ... well, it's one hell of an item. I'll never forget this. He still hasn't told me if he's okay with naming our imaginary son and Syria's brother after my defunct cousin, for as ethnic as his name sounds... but even if he would never be okay with it, I'll always appreciate him for the discretion, the composure, and the respectful silence he observed in such a delicate circumstance. He would've fucked up, if he spoke, and we both know it. Hence he decided to stay silent, and for that I cherish him like I cherish life. All survival guilt aside.
But his silence also means that he's refusing to get caught up with my life, all over again. The thought pains me a little bit, but his good, good loving and his closeness to me, regardless of who I may be or not be, are making it slightly less painful than it'd be otherwise. And here we are now, walking through the mall all hugged up ... and heading to the exit door, out of all the places. He wants to leave, and I second, sign and seal this. I needed groceries, because I don't wanna gonna cook air for my guests tonight, but I suppose we'll hit the supermarket later on this afternoon. We have other plans at the moment, and they do not involve food shopping. To be honest, all I want now is a little, pre rehearsal lie in with him, some cuddles, possibly a serious talk, and a warm bath. Will I get at least three of the above things? I hope so. The US are a weird place, but the water supply is never seized. If you catch my drift. No pun intended.