Stages of Content

Looking up I catch the gaze, not a second too late and it would’ve been too late because it would’ve been missed…the fleeting gaze.‘The’ Gaze.

I latch onto it, not wavering one bit, take my time as he does with mine. Not a smooth face, but it has laughing lines etched into it. Not a full smile, but with time it could ease into a stunning one. Standing up I weave among the crowd, get lost in the sound, echoing, bouncing; Salams, small talks, hearty laughs, whispered scandal. Merry-go-round, our locked gazes circle as I sway to the music. And you’re sturdy body moves next to mine, politely leveling your head nearer, you say…


‘I’d like to get to know; the sprinkle of shamat on the smooth sides of your face, your so called imperfections that I wish to trace, the loosening of your spine when I lay my hand to the small of your back, that lip biting grin when I catch you staring, the two burning spots on your cheeks when I know your ‘thinking’, that resigned state you reach coupled with that faraway look when contemplating, the small creases on your  forehead as you concentrate on reading,  that silent sense of content that we’ll make, the words that I’ll never have to speak, the goose bumps on your flesh when you hear me, the pleasure written on your face as that heady affect of my scent plays havoc in your head, those long fingered, nail bitten, sometimes clammy but always soft hands that calm as I rage, the patience… with me, yourself, mankind and that dazzling, limitless smile that you commit….  Allow me to introduce myself…’  ( I Gots ta Have Him)


She’d push he’d laugh,
she’d walk away he’d stay and wait,
she’d dance he’d heighten the vibe,
she’d speak he’d offer the cushion of silence,
she’d cry he’d rest her flushed cheek against his and meditate:
He’d glare she’d annunciate the affect of her hips,
he’d bite his lips she’d evade with a devilish grin,
he’d tighten his grip she’d raise her brow,
he’d lose patience she’d raise her chin,
he’d bear defeat on his shoulders she’d rest her nose to his collarbone and sway.


There are mornings I wake up and I battle my eyes not to look to my right because it would not only spoil this moment but cause a chain reaction to the ruination of my day. Yet that hunk of mass, that living and breathing Thing in my bed that has taken my leg space, more than half of my blanket, rudely flopping it’s arm across my chest with it’s foul breath upsetting my neck and before I could protest that Thing leaves the loudest, wettest hicky which only entails that I’ll be wearing a turtleneck in mid July.

I hate how he yawns and stretchs to scratch his belly.

I hate how his boxers are always wrinkled & lopsided

I hate how he leaves the cap off the toothpaste

I hate how he suddenly finds it necessary to plant a huge smooch on my face, plastered with shaving cream right after I’d dressed and put the final touches to my face

and I hate, how I hate that I love every second of that whisker burning, leaving an aftertaste of soap for hours to come kiss.

I hate how am still mezmarized at how he lights his cigarette.

I hate that I still blush when he gives a compliment, and rather than being smug he’d just trace the hue with a fingertip.

It’s been almost five years and the daze of that lustful affection has all but moved out with the incoming stench of a rumbling fart and rather than begging my pardon, he hugs me closer and chuckles.

Sometimes I think to look under the bed, covers, pillow even under this woman in search of that child bride, and when I catch her eyes it takes me a while to realize it is in fact she, but what a transformation. Where’s the chick that I’d find on the satoo7 of her parents house, daydreaming the days, writing out poetry and endless stories, playing with the stars, grabbing me by the scuff kissing the daylights out of me, driving me crazy with those untamed curls, graceful ankles and naughty curve of her earlobes. These days she’s erected a ten foot force-field that not even my crooked smile could breach. I tell her I pine for you she accuses me of messing up the vacuumed floor. I tell her she looks lovely she tells me I saw you eyeing that tramp a couple weeks ago. I tell her to relax she tells me to go to hell and while your at it take out the trash.

I miss her stories.

I miss her voice.

I miss my friend.

Coming home from work I don’t bother to take off my shoes, call it a mini-rebellion, but am fed up. Am ready to let her know what’s on my mind and just as the hurtful words are ready to leave my mouth I let them hang useless because there stood my wife.

That wild kid with stray curls framing her face, washing one last dish at the sink, she standing on one foot while the other rubs languidly at her knee giving me a view of those graceful ankles, reaching for the window sill she grabs our wedding ring and before slipping it on she holds it to her chest and just smiles.




He was afraid.

Never was he so afraid, after twelve hours, all the screams, him wanting to rip out his hair or just plug his ears, wishing he hadn’t put her through all this, even when the doctor had told him all was well with his wife, he couldn’t belive it.

She had dark circles under her eyes, nose ultra-red, hair tangled, lips fully chewed and split, but the sweetest look, cheeks full and dimpled, she just couldn’t help smiling. Raising her brow she pouts her lips.


– she wants to see you…


He shakes his head and looks at anything but her. Sliding her body slowly to leave space for him to sit, she gently pats at the hallowed space a teasing look to her face.


– taib I wanna see you…


Nervously tapping his foot with his hands shoved into his pockets she knows he only does this when he is uneasy. Grudgingly he makes his way to the hospital bed, eyes fixed on his laden feet. Sighing into his chest he still refuses to make eye contact wholly focused on naming the blue of his jeans. He feels a tug on the sleeve of his shirt.


– wont you come closer?


He turns his head the opposite direction and before he could help it he lets out a sniff, immediately wiping at his eye, but she’d already caught the shine. Twisting the fabric of his sleeve she pulls him closer to rest her forehead against his shoulder.


– Remember? You got yourself fixed to a majnoona… don’t you go all soft and stupid on me… atleast you didn’t have a whole lotta people staring between your legs, lord knows how many times I farted… poor doctor


Laughter in her eyes she stares at the side of his face, him still unwilling to look at her. Gently she places a soft load into his arms, leaning closer she whispers to his ear.


– She has all her fingers and toes, a pretty nose, the softest ears, pinkest cheeks, and when she grins… baby it looks like we are going to get major gray hairs


The load whimpers in answer, a little hand waving with agitation, and without thinking twice he holds it. The little hand forms a firm grip to one of his fingers, and in response he lowers his face to lay his first kiss.





He was in her likeness as she in his, before sunrise, after sunset each a shadow to the others presence. No one never knew when they awoke but you can always find them long before the first echoes of the morning azan, side by side, he always making a point that her moslaya overlapped his, playing with the end of her toub as he watches her make du3aas, she admiring his frame beneath her lashes, an anatomy of beauty she breathes graces. And if you should sit with them, words are hardly spoken, but their gazes hold the satisfaction of souls intertwined making it hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins. If you abide patience, watch how she pulls his head to her lap, loose her fingers in the shock of silver hair or how he slowly bends his head, his back not like it used it to be, framing her face with wrinkled hands, taking his time to admire her gray hairs before dropping a kiss. Stay longer and you’ll see the air plump with soundless happiness, wonder, reverence, elation and like teenagers on lovers lane, the toub wearing 7ajja and jalabeeya wearing 7aaj walk hand in hand, fingers interlaced.