The Balloon Letters: Ibrahim

"My father calls me 'youngest son.' He says it with a tone of disappointment, a tinge of shame. His deep voice practically hums with his dislike of me. He won't look me in the eyes and, for the past five years, he won't say my name.

"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.

"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."

Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.

He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.

Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.

He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.

He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.

Female Liberation: Part 1

In rolling red script
the declarations proclaimed that a
woman's life was profane. With
sadistic glee they began the purge,
chortling in delight as they
raped, pillaged and purged.

Some they kept alive, for how
else would their population thrive,
but it was decreed that no
female babies would be kept
alive. Mothers, sisters, aunts,
daughters and friends were
each dragged away for no
other sin than that of being womankind.
The smoke from the pillars
let off a dark and foul stench,
tangled with cries to "burn the
wretched wench!"

The gallows bowed under the
weight of so much female weight.
The ones to be kept were corralled,
collared and caged. They were
given numbers instead of names.
The were fed, but they were
starved. They were kept healthy for
breeding and when a woman was
deemed infertile she was
executed with no remorse.

For a century they were enslaved by
the men in power. For a century they
struggled. (All the centuries of female
liberation and female power shattered.)

One night, in the quivering darkness, a
woman, once named Amira now called
number 27, prayed to the goddess, her
tears pleading.

"O great and wonderful goddess, please
send a one who will save us from this
hell. We are faithful to you, please be
faithful to us as well." That night
the Goddess heard, as if for the first
time, the cries of the harmed. She
wept at the chaos caused and the
cruelty of such caustic laws.

So, when the breeding season came,
she caused a soft rain to ensure
feminine seeds. Her magic was gentle
and pervasive, calming even the most
hostile of the delegates.

Seventeen

You stifle a giggle. Not because you are happy, but because you are nervous. You hate this about yourself, almost as much as your jiggly thighs and extra belly flab. There a lot of things you hate about yourself, besides your nervous giggles and fat. There are things you are too ashamed to admit because you've always been told they are wrong or because you so desperately want to fit in. Some of this has led to cutting yourself, some of it to the drinking, some of it to the thoughts you are afraid to even admit to yourself.

You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.

Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.

You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.

He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.

You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.

You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.

But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.

Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.

You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.

The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.

He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.

The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.

Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.

You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.

You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.

She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.

In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.

This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.

One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.

You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.

You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.

You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.

It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.

It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.

Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.

You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.

You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.

Blood sings to Blood

Homosexuality, Bisexuality, Transgendered, Heterosexuality, these are WORDS. They do not define us. They separate only if you build your walls with them. If you say them like a curse, they may burn, but they don't have the staying power to set the world on fire.

If you let others define you, with their words and their hates, you never learn of the beauty that can be found in the ashes. Don't let the smoldering bones of those who have fought, clawed, raged and died be for nothing.

You are beautiful, even though you come from ashes. Your name isn't a forbidden word. Say it loud. Speak, scream, shout, be HEARD. Don't let them silence you. Don't let them steal your voice. Don't let the words destroy you.

Let the words slip over you, like water off of a duck's feathers. Use only beautiful words to build. And build bridges instead of walls.

Insubstantial

You raped me.
Not in the physical sense.
Not in a way I could fight back.
No, you broke me in ways that don't show.
Ways that aren't visible on skin.

You shattered my confidence.
You raped me, without laying a finger on me.
You butchered my self-worth.
You devastated my sense of self.
And then you had the audacity to say,
"I love you."

You belittled me,
brains washed clean of independent thought.
You forced yourself on me.
You made me so sick of myself.

I took up the alcohol and the knives,
razors and sharp points.
I tried to dig you out, bleed you out,
force you out.
The words building up the revolution inside me.

I took the medicines.
I took the beatings.
I took the starvation and the fear.
I let you drag me to the point of desperation.

You can't see the scars you left.
They lie to deep to be found by mortal eyes.
But you didn't have to touch me to rape me.
You didn't have to raise one finger to mutilate me.

All you had to do was say three simple words.
"I Love You."
That was the sharpest knife of all.

You said it so rarely, I craved the cut.
You showed it so little, I was dried out.
You expressed your, twisted, sense of affection
through spankings and prayers for my soul.
By lies told in such a way to wound,
told in such a way to twist and snap my everything.

You seem confused now, confused as to why I refuse
to have anything to do with you.
You claim innocence, when your tongue's poisons were
deadlier than a viper's.
You claim to still harbor some affection for me.
You never knew me. You just knew the ME you
tried to force me to be.

I'm not a toy. I'm not a doll you can play with.
I'm not a tool to be used in the creation of some
outermost monstrosity. I'm not your plaything.
I'm not a child any longer. I'll no longer be brittle.

And I will no longer be raped.

Bisexual Bias

Dear Sir,
In regards to your article "Bisexual bias" in the IDS, I would like to say a few things.

"I’ve had a saying for a few years now. Bisexuals are like unicorns. You really want them to exist. But they just don’t."
1. Comparing a bisexual person to unicorns is mostly, if not entirely, ridiculous.
There are many cases in which unicorns can have existed, thus leading one to believe that you are saying bisexual homo sapiens do, in fact, exist.

Examples: If we were to go completely old school Biblical on the matter, if you are one who believes in the Bible, you would find there are several verses involving the unicorn. This might lead one to believe that you were saying that bisexuals at one time existed, but don't any longer. For your in-depth research (which I am sure you did for your article) verses involving unicorns can be found in the KJV Bible, said verses being: Numbers 23:22, Job 39:9, Psalms 29:6, Job 39:10, Numbers 24:8 and Psalms 92:10.

Or, if you don't believe in the Bible, we can look at the Narwhal, oft considered the Unicorn of the Sea or any other animal with one horn.
   *The word "unicorn" stems from early 13th century Old French "unicorne" and from Late Latin "unicornus" meaning, quite literally, "having one horn." Uni- meaning "one" plus cornus meaning "horn." If we go with this, that means that anything having one horn is considered a unicorn, making them quite real in the etymological sense of the word.

I'm sure, however, that you meant them in the purely fairy tale sense of the word, being a horse with a lion's tail, a single horn protruding from its head and a billy goat's beard (or, if you prefer, Pliny's version: a creature with a horse's body, deer's head, elephant's feet, lion's tail, and one black horn two cubits long projecting from its forehead). Or maybe you meant it in the allegorical sense, which was used as a tool by the Christians to teach morals. Such morals being that a Unicorn can only be tamed by a virgin (virgin in almost any sense of that word), the Unicorn being Christ in certain tales. And dire consequences for those who pretended to be virgin as they were skewered on the horn of the beast. That doesn't seem to fit quite as neatly as your original simile, but if we're talking of backwards philosophies it seems to fit quite nicely.

"It’s very difficult in our society to believe in something as free-spirited as bisexuality."
2. It also seems very difficult, in our society, to believe in Love and Marriage being uninhibited by things such as age, sexual preferences, gender, race, religion, etc. Love is apparently tethered to concrete ideas and laws. "Free-spirited" makes it sound as though it is a childish thing. Sexuality isn't an idea that we follow, like the Flower Power movement. Sexuality is not Hippies in the summer of '69. It is a deep and personal thing, grounded in one's sense of self. It is something we all find inside of ourselves. It is longing to be with another person in the most intimate way, sharing bodies and things that no one wants to talk about because they are "shameful."  And that longing is not restrained by your narrow view of the world.

"it’s threatening. For heterosexuals and homosexuals, we have to contend with only being attracted to half of the population. Those odds aren’t terrific. For someone who’s bisexual, the world is their genital oyster. It’s actually a very picturesque image. Men, women, who cares? I’m attracted to everyone."
3. I don't understand this part at all. You say it is threatening, bisexuality that is, but don't explain how it is threatening. How does bisexuality threaten your sexuality in any way? Truly, I'm curious. Explain to me, without Biblical or personal biases, how Bisexuality is threatening in any way, shape or form. You then say that the world is a "genital oyster." That is, not only, a vile pictorial image, but also shows just how little you understand about sexuality in general.

Yes, sexuality does, often involve, genitalia. However, there is so much more to sexuality than just sex. Sexuality is a strong basic instinct, a need, a desire, an attraction. It involves emotions and physical sensations. It can be impacted by the atmosphere one grows up in. It will never leave you. It is a key part of one's identity.

You make it sound almost as if sex meant nothing except, simply, getting one's rocks off. As if a bisexual is a selfish or greedy being for being attracted to more than one sex. Bisexuality is an attraction to either gender, that is true. But often the attraction is deeper than sexual. One can be attracted to anyone; beyond their gender, religion, sexual preferences, age, race, cultural background, etc. And what one finds sexually attractive doesn't even have to be human. There are those who are sexually attracted a person's mind or even inanimate objects. Wherever humans are involved there is no strict definition for sexuality. No strict definition for anything. We are more than the limits placed on us by other, simpler, creatures.

You say that "Those odds aren't terrific" when speaking of being "only" attracted to half of the population. Being attracted to only a man or only a woman isn't terrible. The odds are fine. In fact, when did odds even enter the picture? You make it sound like a race. As if we are all in a race with one another to see who is more attracted to who. It isn't a race. It isn't a game. There are no "odds." There are only people. People who love and hate, create and destroy, write good articles and shitty ones.

"Now, I am not bisexual."
4. Clearly.

"I also can’t assert assurance on things like Bigfoot, John F. Kennedy’s assassination or the contention of Jesus’ divinity."
5. I cannot say, with certainty that Bigfoot does or does not exist. JFK was, in fact, assassinated, though by whom is still up for debate. And whilst Jesus did exist, I cannot say with certainty that he was divine. However, I also can't say with certainty when we will die. I can't say that Coca Cola is the superior of all carbonated beverages. Nothing in this life is particularly certain. Truth is defined by who is looking at it, not by what it actually is.

"The real issue has to do with the male psyche and sexuality."
6. Yes, yes it does. At last, something we agree on! It DOES have to do with the Male psyche and sexuality. Men are generally insecure about their sexuality, no matter their preferences. Everything about sex makes one insecure. The length and width of his organ, whether he is doing well, how quickly he can reach orgasm, etc. Men are generally quite insecure with anything having to do with their own emotions and their being as well. I have yet to meet a man who is completely secure with being emotionally honest. Does that mean that he doesn't exist somewhere? Does that mean I am going to have to start writing wildly inaccurate articles on male emotions?

"The same notion just doesn’t extend to heterosexual women. You’d be hard pressed to find a straight woman finding the same sexual stimulation from watching two men go at it."
7. You, sir, clearly have never met a woman willing to talk about being aroused by two men "going at it" as you so delicately put it. I myself enjoy watching two men fornicate, kiss, etc. I find it arousing when a man kisses another man. The funny thing is that you would be "hard pressed" to find a straight woman who is NOT aroused by two men having sexual intercourse. There are numerous articles you can find about straight female arousal whilst watching male on male pornography, but I'm assuming you didn't actually try to find any. Your whole article suggests a lack of study on the topic at hand.

To quote a poster on one of the response brought up by my searches: "What I find hilarious, is that so many straight men assume that women don't find it erotic, just because THEY [men] don't."

"But after years of men grind stoning women’s sexuality to the fine powder it is today, why should anyone be the wiser? Two women going at it? Crack a beer and enjoy. Two men going at it? Ultimate party foul. It’s typically pretty hard to party once the gay bomb drops."
8. I don't understand that first sentence at all. "But after years of men grind stoning women's sexuality to the fine powder it is today," what does that even mean? Did you even edit this before posting it to such a public forum? And what do you mean by "grind stoning women's sexuality"?

Two women are having sex with one another and this is suddenly a party? Do men do that? They all get together and watch lesbian porn whilst drinking beer? Someone puts in a gay porno and then all bets are off? "Gay bomb?" Truly, your word choice is ridiculously childish.

"I can’t begin to believe in bisexuality in a society where men’s sexuality isn’t nearly as fluid as women’s."
9. The problem with men's sexuality being fluid has nothing to do with whether or not bisexuality exists, but lies (once again) with the male psyche. Men seem to have this preconceived notion that it is unacceptable for them to be bisexual. Out of all the homosexual and heterosexual men I have met it comes down to this idea that they have to choose. That there is no "this" and "that." It is all "this" OR "that." It astounds me, actually, the number of men who find some other men attractive, but won't do anything with that attraction because they also find women attractive. That is definitely a problem with today's society, you are correct on that part. Society says it is totally wrong to think or exist outside of the sexuality box it has created for us.

"Recently in Hollywood, loads of successful women have come out as bisexual."
10. Hollywood is DEFINITELY a good place to look for reality and facts. Plenty of people will say whatever it takes to become famous or to have the spotlight shine a bit brighter on them. That doesn't make it fact.

"But the future may be bright. Frank Ocean is one example of a successful man who’s admitted to having a relationship with a man."
11. I find it sad that the final breath of your article is a sarcastic, and pithy, "Men in the limelight aren't bisexual so no one can be bisexual."

I am a bisexual woman. I am proud of my sexuality and who I am as a person. I have a loving husband and a wonderful girlfriend. I can't imagine going through my life without either of them. There is more to my being attracted to them than their gender. More to my love for them than their genitalia. Its people like yourself, that raise the banners of prejudice and bias against what you don't understand and don't bother to understand.

sincerely,
Sarai.

The Ring of Roses

Mama's face is hot and flushed. Her once creamy complexion is now worryingly florid.

Our neighbours stay away and have taken to lighting bundles of twigs around our house to warn others. We all know that it means death is visiting. We are called "roses," my sister and I, and people cross themselves as we walk by. They ring the house, at night, with fire, hoping to cleanse the air of disease. It won't work. It never does.

Mama insists we keep posy petals in our pockets to protect us from what we cannot see. She is delirious oftentimes and can't seem to see that it is too late. Papa died last week and my sister and I dragged him out to be burned with the myriad of other dead.

We had been safe, but then Mama's face, once so clear and bright, became something else. The blisters gathered, like a vulture to carrion, around her beautiful lips and the "roses" bloomed upon her cheeks. My older sister, Mary, tends her while I chop wood for our meager fire.

The ashes. The ashes fall down, they are forever falling, and they leave nothing untouched. There is no respite to this wickedness, this plague. Only the ashes. The fires, the ashes, the stench. It never ends. All of the men in our village, those who have not died, pile the corpses in the ditches and light them. These, once human, torches blaze so brightly that day and night are indistinguishable. And the ashes fall like snow over the trees and the pastures.

Mama collapses and Mary tries to lift her. But they have both become too weak. The roses have bloomed on Mary's cheeks and it is only a matter of time before she succumbs to this terrible curse.

I place her rosary about her neck and begin to plead with the Virgin to spare what is left of my family. My cries fall on deaf ears, for, in the morning, I discover my mother dead.

There is a ring around the roses, a small ring of light to brighten the night as I bury my mother with a pocket full of posies. The ashes, the ever-present ashes, fall into my hair and my eyelashes as I struggle to lay my sister to rest.

It comes for us all, in time. From the strongest of men to the weakest of babes.

We all fall down.

Dear Mr. President,

August 01st, 2012

Dear Mr. President,

It's a funny (as in weird) time right now, don't you think? All this insanity with your upcoming election (I am confident in your abilities as you can see) and the world is all a stage (as Shakespeare once said) set with chessmen. In the end it's kind of like that, a political checkmate with more than a chessboard at stake. Of course chess players don't usually play for keeps.

Mr. President, I am going to be honest, I'm not sure why I am writing you. My previous letter (before I was married I sent you a glittery Paris themed card) had a point. I wanted to tell you how much I supported you. I still support you (and not just because you were the first president I got to vote for). But this wasn't really going to be about that.

We're moving, not just as a country. Moving towards something ill-defined and frightening. I'm afraid, sir. Afraid that we're moving not for the better. We (the collective "we") have grown so lazy, prejudiced, paranoid and irrational. I feel like I'm trapped in the collective body of a rabid dog. I resist, but get pulled in again. It seems insane because it is.

Frankly, Mr. President, I could care less about your religious beliefs. The constitution (last I checked) said nothing about religion. I care that you have morals; compassion, honesty, etc. I don't care if you were born overseas or not (not that I believe you were, but I hear this ALL the time at work) because you were born to American citizens so it wouldn't matter anyway.

What I care about is you visiting the Colorado victims. I care about you paying the same amount of taxes I do. I care about you donating your Nobel Peace prize money. I care about you fighting for equal pay for equal work.

I care about you standing up for GLBTQ rights. I care about those things, Mr. President. I don't care if you worship Buddha or Krishna or Zeus for that matter. I do care if you use your power for good rather than "evil." Be Luke not Vader (well at the beginning Vader, you can be Vader overthrowing the Emperor. Huh, the Emperor could be Romney or big business and you could be Vader throwing them over the railing... Somehow I don't think I'll be getting a job creating your ads any time soon).

I'm sorry I ramble so, Mr. President.

I'm sorry I don't have more money. I want to donate. I want to have a chance to have dinner with you. I want to be more than one voice, but it's very hard being an adult, don't you agree?

I want so many things! I want my freedom. I want my health. I want my liberty and to pursue my happiness. I want to be a part of this so-called "Great Nation."

In truth, I just want to be happy. I want more than what I've been told I should want.

I hope I haven't bored you to tears, sir. I hope you and yours are doing well. I hope you continue the good fight, even if letters from supporters stop coming. Even if it looks bleak. There are people, like me, who can't afford Mr. Romney, sir. Especially those who think he is a good option.

Please beat him. Please continue to be the kind and wonderful human being you are. And please say a prayer (if you believe in that, I don't really anymore) for me.

In all sincerity and with great respect,
Sarai Smith
(formerly, Sarai Lillie)

Another Moment

I was eleven in 1999. My brother was nine and my sister was almost four.

I don't think it was the first year that my mother let us stay up for New Year's Eve, but it was one of the first years she let us.

Y2K was everywhere. It was the new Communist scare; the newest trend in fear. We were going to be set back from the technological age.

For me it was exciting. I have always dreamed that we would be forced back in time. It is an idea that I've tried to write about too. I love history so much that it made me think that we would start dressing like we did in the 1800's again, start speaking properly and acting like we were civilized. Much to my chagrin, that isn't what would've actually happened if technology had been decimated.

On this particular New Year's Eve, on the brink of a new millenia, my brother and I were staying up for midnight. Hannah had already been put to bed, mostly against her will as she had wanted to be a big girl and stay up too. She fell asleep shortly before ten and I carried her to our shared bedroom. Chris and I hadn't fully decided what we wanted to do.

If I recall correctly, we played some records before we decided to watch a movie.

Of course our first choice was "Much Ado About Nothing."

My mother has always been very eclectic in her tastes (which is where I got it!) and her love of classical things is what influenced me in my love for the same. Shakespeare was one of my first loves. Elvis came first, though.

Anywho, this was one of our favorite films. It still is. So we watched that. That killed some time, but not enough for midnight.

It was around this time that Ivan, a dear family friend, called to wish us Happy New Year. I told him that Mom had gone to bed with a migraine and that Chris and I were watching Shakespeare movies until midnight. He offered to come over and watch movies with us. And bring pizza.

When he arrived we decided to watch "Henry V."

Which, in case you didn't know, is a war movie. It is one of the only war movies I enjoy, because it is Shakespeare in all his glory. And Kenneth Branagh. That helps too... Because it is a war movie, that automatically means that it is bloody. As in VERY bloody. Nothing like blood and pizza on the brink of what was supposed to be the Technological Apocalypse, right?

Anyway, Ivan kept covering his eyes. He isn't fond of blood and gore. Neither am I, usually, but for this particular movie I make an exception. Did I mention Kenneth Branagh is in it? Where was I? Oh right, the movie.

So, Chris and I, being terrible children, kept teasing Ivan and telling him that the blood was gone. Of course he would peep out from between his fingers and see there was still plenty of blood on the screen and cover them back up. And we would giggle like it was the funniest thing ever. Which, at the time, it was.

I don't know why, but I've been thinking about this particular memory a lot lately. Nostalgia in my old age? Who knows.

I miss those times. I miss believing that everything was going to be fine. I miss believing that we were all going to make it somehow. I miss being closer to my sister. I miss having a family.

I still have a family, but it feels different. It has changed so much from the family it used to be. We are still Debra, Sarai, Chris and Hannah. But we are different. We are much changed from the people we used to be. Sometimes I don't think we are changed for the better.

Sometimes I miss living in that little blue trailer, in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by fields full of alfalfa and woods that held such beautiful mysteries. I miss riding my bike up and down that gravel road. I miss our dogs. I miss my knitting lessons and sneaking peeks of naughty movies while babysitting. I miss sharing a room with my baby sister, with an old and tattered poster of a Degas ballerina. I miss listening to Simon and Garfunkel on the record player. I even miss listening to old sermon tapes.

I miss the deer heads and the mounted fish. I miss fishing and playing in the snow.

I miss making homemade pizza with my mom. I miss playing chess with my brother. I miss reading to my mom.

What I miss most is what you can see in our pictures.

I miss what we used to be, when we were happy. Not when we were fighting, not when we were being abused, not when we were miserable. I miss those sparkling moments that linger in my memory where we were happy and we were a family.

The Moment

When I was young there was a lot of stress in my life (there is still a lot of stress in my life). Back then I didn't know how to deal with it (who am I kidding? I still don't know how to deal with it!). I was self-destructive because it was a way to express the turmoil inside me. I was cruel to my body because I perceived it as my enemy. I still perceive it as my enemy, sometimes. Depends on my mood of course.


My step-father's mother used to cook all the time. I don't know if she still does because I am not in contact with her really. She used to fill my plate to the brim any time I was there and I would be told to eat every bite because "there are children starving in Africa." God, I must've heard that SO many times. This, and my growing dissatisfaction with my appearance, ushered me into what I call the "bulimia stage."

I could never finish a whole plate. Ever. I would try, valiantly. But I just couldn't do it. At first I smuggled food in my napkin and excused myself to the bathroom, where I would dump it in the toilet and flush. This quickly got old. I could only carry so much in my napkin, after all.

That's where the moment happened. That moment when I realized that my aching stomach could be purged and then I'd eat more and purge later. I could eat everything, clean my plate and be free of guilt for those poor starving African children or Chinese children or whatever starving children. It wasn't truly a waste, because I did eat it. I just threw it up later.

I did this off and on for a few years. I didn't become what one would call a "full-fledged" bulimic because you can tell when I've been throwing up. The pressure is too much for my poor blood vessels and they burst when I throw up. In my face. So it looks like someone splattered my face with blood or that I suddenly have bloody freckles. This can also happen in my eyes (which I discovered when I was in high school. Rather unfortunate experience since I looked like a demon for a week or two).

Sometimes, though, when I became ridiculously stressed I would throw up to feel better. It was like purging out all the stress building up inside of me. I didn't do it often, but I always felt better. Even now I will sometimes force the point if I feel sick to my stomach. It's not hard.

The difference between now and then is that I don't need to throw up to feel better about my stress. I may still need to if I'm sick (which is the only time I'll push the proverbial envelope), but not to deal with the stress.

I tried to commit suicide at seven. Don't ask me why, because I can't remember. I just know that I was too afraid to continue living and I was so tired of everything. I overdosed on my inhaler. That wasn't the first time.

For that particular incident, I was punished. The head pastor at the church we went to told my step-father that I was in rebellion and needed discipline. I received a "spanking." For the record, I don't disagree with spankings. I am for a good spanking (both for discipline and sexual pleasure) in certain cases. I believe you should never spank a child in anger and that you should never use anything besides your hand. You feel the sting, if you use your hand. You can gauge how much pain you are delivering and I feel like this makes the difference between abuse and discipline. Personally speaking, of course. I was "spanked" with a switch by a man who enjoyed wielding it a little too much.

I became very good at lying about my overdoses. They were "accidents." Even the one time I emptied an entire inhaler, with my step-father in the room. I did this by sitting close to the speakers of our radio/tape player/record player while he was listening to a tape and waiting until it grew loud enough to cover the sound of the inhaler. I explained them all away. And they never did me any good anyway.

As I got older I realized that killing myself by inhaler was a bad idea. All it did was make me shaky. So I decided to cut my wrists.

We lived in a house by this time. A beautiful house, really. My room was the master bedroom upstairs (as my step-father changed the basement into another level of the house), complete with my own bathroom. Perfect for a teenage girl! One day, I locked myself in the bathroom, sat in front of the door and tried to drag a knife across my wrist (which I now know wouldn't actually work). I didn't even get so far as cutting, because the phone rang at that moment. Heaven only knows why I had it with me.

It was my best friend, Jo. At the time, I took that as a sign from God, because she said she didn't know why she was calling. She just suddenly had a bad feeling and called to see if something was wrong. I cried when I told her what I was trying to do. She talked me out of it and that was the end of that.

I am actually surprised that I didn't start cutting sooner than I did because of all the pent up anger (at myself, at my mother [I'm not mad at you anymore, Mom], at my father, at my step-father, at God, etc.), stress and previous suicide attempts. It just makes sense that I would cut. In the scheme of things, anyway.

The first time I cut myself on purpose, I was at church. My boyfriend (My Edward Cullens, if you will) had just broken up with me. This was a boyfriend I was keeping secret from my friends at school because he was eight years older than me and he was a convicted child molester. Actually, I was doing a poor job of keeping him a secret. I had mentioned him to a couple friends and they freaked out (rightly so, I might add). They told me it was a terrible idea and questioned my sanity (once again, rightly so).

I lied and said I had made it up. He was a hypothetical boyfriend. Well, I guess I'm admitting that he wasn't a hypothetical. He was real. And yes, you were right. It was an awful idea. I'm sorry that I lied about lying, but panic set in and I hate conflict.

It wasn't so much that he broke up with me as it is that we decided to break up until I turned eighteen. Oh yeah, I was sixteen (a week from seventeen) when we met. Seventeen when we started dating. I, foolishly, believed I loved him. He was the only guy who seemed actually interested in being with ME not my BODY. He liked me for me, or so I thought. And things went way further with him than they should've.

I was devastated when we broke up. I hid myself in the Sabbath School room (because I was a Seventh Day Adventist at the time) and took out a little pocket knife a guy friend had given me for protection. I was wearing a skirt that day, with shorts underneath. I pulled up the skirt a little and sliced at my inner thigh until I saw blood. My ex came in right after I had put the knife back in my pocket.

He asked if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine, though I had been crying. He said we were still going to be friends. A week later we were going out again.

Dating him was self-destructive on three fronts:
1. I started cutting because of it.
2. I pushed myself, sexually, even when I knew I wasn't ready for it (and I knew he was a bad idea).
3. I was only dating him to get my step-father's attention.

We dated for another two weeks before I found out he was cheating on me (had been the whole time, by the way) and I broke up with him. Again. He came over to my house and tried to seduce me back to him. He played a stupid ICP (Insane Clown Posse) song while we were in his car. We made out a little bit, but I didn't say I'd go back out with him. Despite my "love" for him, I couldn't take him back after the cheating. Also, that ICP song was INCREDIBLY stupid and un-romantic. Bad choice in seduction music, dude.

He's in prison somewhere. I think.

I cut for a time after that. I cut until I was nineteen, if memory serves. Secretly, of course. And I attempted to convince everyone that they were cat scratches. That didn't work, by the way. Everyone tried to stop me, to their credit. I finally quit because I knew I couldn't keep doing that to myself. I also knew that my ass would get kicked if I continued. Plus, right around the time I finally stopped I "ran away" from home to deal with my issues. Which also didn't work.

A few major reasons for my various amounts of self-destruction:
1. My emerging sexuality. I'm bisexual. Anyone who has read my blog knows that (or my dA journal). Anyone who knows me personally should know that. But I was very closeted at the time because of my step-father, because of my God, because of my church friends, etc. My desire to be with a woman sexually was reprehensible according to my beliefs. Another portion of this was my realization that I was not "vanilla," not just bisexually. This also seemed to clash with who I "was."

2. I was surrounded by death. A lot of my family, friends and people I knew were dying all around me. It was terrifying. And disheartening. It is rough when you have been to more funerals than you ever been to weddings or baby showers.

3. My step-father was abusive. Still is, but not to me and his ways have become more subtle. We carried on an emotionally incestuous relationship for most of my formative years. He was also physically and emotionally abusive to me and my brother. My own inability to protect my brother from him played a big role in it too.

4. I was being sexually abused. By several different people and for far longer than I should've been. Sexual abuse is usually perpetuated by someone you trust and know. My ex-boyfriend was only one perpetrator of this.

5. My step-father was emotionally distant from me. Looking back I realize that I just wanted to feel like he loved me. I know, now, that he probably never did. Which stings. I was trying so hard to get his attention. I was trying to get any kind of attention from him. Anything would've been better than nothing.

6. My mother was sick (I don't blame you anymore, Mom). A lot. My mom has a lot of health issues and sometimes she wasn't there when I really needed her. It wasn't her fault, but it pissed me off as well as depressed me. I have always had a close relationship with my mom, her being unavailable when I felt like I needed her was disheartening. Plus, her almost bleeding to death on our bathroom floor from a horrific miscarriage didn't help matters. Every time she got sick I was afraid she was going to die and I'd be alone with my brother, sister and step-father. This was combined with my desire that she die so that she wouldn't be in pain anymore, which lead to a tremendous amount of guilt. Why would I wish my mother dead when I loved her so much?

7. I was desperately lonely. I had friends, but they weren't around all the time. And I felt like I only had the one really close friend, Jo. I was also desperate for any sort of validation. Which is another reason why my step-father being so emotionally distant was destructive for me. I craved validation that I was pretty, smart, etc. That lack of validation has embedded in my brain that I'm useless and stupid so that, no matter what anyone says, I can't believe it.

8. Abandonment issues. My father and I stopped talking when I was thirteen. I sent him a letter telling him I never wanted to talk to him again, that I hated him and it was his fault my Memere was dead (she had died three years prior). His acquiescing to my demands has always felt like abandonment. Part of me wanted him to verbally slap me and continue writing me. I didn't actually hate him. I just missed my grandmother. And I was angry at her for dying, for missing so much of what was to come. I was angry that I didn't get to go to her funeral. I felt like she had abandoned me. My dad had abandoned me. My step-father was emotionally distant and my mother was physically unavailable. I just felt abandoned on all fronts.

So, what was the point of all this you may be asking? I don't know. Maybe it's going to help me realize that I don't have to be self-destructive to deal with my stress? Maybe it's a way of working out externally what has been going on inside me for years internally? Why post it?

Because it is part of what will eventually be written in the book of my life, when I am old and gray. Because it is who I was. I don't need pity, I don't need the attention. Not anymore. I just need to get it out of me, like I have always needed to get it out of me. This is a lot better than a knife, or throwing up dinner. Plus, maybe there are people out there who will read it and be able to diagnose what is going on in their lives too. Help them to see that you can come away from all that crap mostly intact.

Do I have scars? Yes. I have lots of them. I do not cover them up and I am not ashamed of them. They are what has made me, ME. I would not be Sarai if not for the scars that have built Sarai.

The Golden Man

Dear ____,

I keep telling myself that I will stop missing you, stop writing you. I tell myself that I never really loved you and you never really loved me. It doesn't make anything hurt less, it doesn't change how I feel. No matter what I do, I keep thinking about you. I miss you. I wish things had been different.

I was seventeen. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship. I had finally broken up with the Edward in my life. My home life was deteriorating. I was losing faith in God, in religion, in love. I was wilting, like a forgotten flower in a too sunny window.

And you came in to my picture. You came into the darkness and pulled me out. Or so I thought.

I had a crush on you. You were so smart, strong and funny. You were sweet and wonderful, it was easy to fall for you. I didn't even have to try. But you had a wife and I valued our friendship too much to say anything. Not that you couldn't see it written all over my face. I can say I never tried to take you from her. I am still her friend, though I still feel the shame bubbling up in my cheeks sometimes when I talk to her.

I worshiped you. I adored you. I loved you. I wrote so many poems in your honour, though I have often said I would not waste another verse on you. I say I will not waste another tear in your name.

I keep thinking back to when I told you that I had a crush on you. You said you had already known. I blushed because I couldn't believe I had been so obvious.

I told you that I wanted to have sex. You said you would ruin me for other men. I told you I wanted to be ruined. Sometimes when I think about that I know you ruined me anyway.

I can still feel your fingers tracing the soft part of my neck up to my ear and back down as I was trying to write that mythology I was creating. I had dedicated a character to you. The most beloved man created by the Gods and Goddesses of my world. I called you Zimri. How fitting that, in the Bible, Zimri is a traitor and the name itself means "my song" (Or mountain sheep, but that fits less perfectly.)

I remember how strongly I wanted to kiss you. I remember making you blush, twice, and marveling at my ability. I remember how badly I wanted you, while feeling the guilt creeping around the edges. Your wife. Your son and your daughter. Your life that I was so desperately wanting to be a part of.

I was seventeen, though, ____! You should've resisted me, should've told me no. Told me that it was inappropriate. Why didn't you? Was I Lolita, seducing you away from God and family?

I blame myself for inviting you to the prom. I blame myself for asking you to go with me. I wish I'd never gone. I wish I'd never said anything. But I wanted that experience. I wanted to experience prom, to experience a dance. It was my first dance and I was so excited to be dancing with you. I remember all the moves we created for "Beep" by the Pussycat Dolls. Sometimes, when I'm reminiscing, I play it. I dance and I think about you.

Sometimes I look at the pictures from that night. The night we stopped being friends. The night we became something more than friends, but less than lovers.

I abandoned you when you said you were leaving her. When you said you no longer believed in God. I was afraid, more than anything. And I was angry. I don't even know why I was so angry. I know I felt ashamed and betrayed for everything that happened between us. But that wasn't the reason I stopped talking to you. You had left me, now you were abandoning God and family. The whole time that I knew it could never be, even when I was hoping it would be, I prayed you would stay married. I prayed you would stay with your wife. I prayed I would forget you.

My prayers were for nothing. I still lost you.

The wound still aches every now and then. It still throbs. I still dream about you. I still miss you. I still love you. The truth of the matter is that I always will.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to remove you from my life. I wish I hadn't, now. But where would we be? You wouldn't have come back to me. You wouldn't have fulfilled my dream. You couldn't. We couldn't

Some days, I admit, I still want you. I am comfortable admitting that. I wouldn't do anything now, because I am happily married, but I still wonder.

I think my problem is that I wonder if you still think about me. I just want to know that you miss me too. And I don't know why I want to know that. Do you ever think about me? Do you ever miss me? Do you ever want me still? I wish you would message me. Just once, let me know that you still love me like you said you always would. Even though we still can't be. Even though I shouldn't let you back in.

Darling, I miss you, but this is another in a series of confessions I've written on my way to letting you go. I won't e-mail you. I won't message you on Facebook. I won't try, though I want to sometimes. I will eventually come to terms with this.

In the meantime, I hope you are doing well. I hope you are happy and healthy. I hope all sorts of beautiful hopes for you.

Love,
Sarai

Burned

You burned the bridge. You stood there holding the torch.
How dare you blame this on me?
You love me still. You love me.
But you stood there, smiling, as the wood crackled with rose flame.

How dare you try to pin this on me?
You were my father, my friend. You were even a lover, of sorts.
You make me so sick. I want to throw up. I want to scream.
You burned the bridge, but I should be the one to re-build it.

You told me God is a gentleman. God loves everyone.
But you tried to teach me to hate.
You tried to cut me to fit the circles you had planned.
You loved me, but you tried to beat the depression out.

You loved us, but you starved us. Starved us for food,
love, attention. You forced your God down my throat.
You said that God loves me. You told me you were proud of me.
You are such a liar. And you burned everything down.

You abandoned us.
You abused us.
Your love was a rip-off, a ploy and a trap.
You made me wish I was dead.

I tried so many times to cut out the feelings,
vomit up the self-disgust because of what I felt, still feel.
And I hate having to identify myself by your last name,
because you tried to erase my real identity.

No one knows me by my true name.
No one knows me by any other mark than yours.
I am nothing.
I am just as much yours now as I ever was, because I can't escape.

You burned a bridge and I am left grasping the ashes,
trying to make sense of what you've done.
God is a gentleman. God knows everything.
God loves everyone. God loves me. You are so proud.

If God is a gentleman, I wish he would leave me alone.
If God knows everything, I wish He had used that power.
If God loves everyone, why can't He love them as they are?
If God loves me, why can't He love me as I am?

I gave you the matches. I didn't know who I was.
I can't stay in the cage you built around me.
I simply am.
And you burned the bridge, so I have to let you go.

A Statement

I'm sorry. I can't vote for someone who believes that I don't deserve equal pay for equal work, who believes that women who have been raped deserved it, who believes that I don't deserve the right to birth control, who believes that I don't deserve to be in love with who I am in love with.

I can't. I can't because, no matter how down I may get on myself I know a few basic truths:
I don't deserve to be raped. No one does. EVER. No matter what I wear or what I do.

I deserve equal pay for equal work.

I have the right to LIFE, therefore I deserve to have access to what makes me healthy.

I have the right to LIBERTY, therefore I deserve to be able to live my life free of fear.

I have the right to HAPPINESS, therefore I deserve to be happy with whomever I choose.

So, when the time comes, you can say what you want, hate who you hate, I will stand by who I will stand by and I will still support who I support. And if you wonder why, you can look over what I've said and you will either understand or you won't.

All of Her: Chapter Thirteen

Jahan sneaks away from her father's house many times a week to stay the night with me. Her brother lends her his car, not knowing that she is using it to carry on a homosexual affair with me. An affair that revolves around her rebellious love for sex, alcohol, pork and shellfish. An affair that involves the complete removal of her burqa and niqab. An affair that causes me more and more guilt with each passing day.

We never go out in public where she could be seen. Though she admits that only her mother has seen her without the burqa and niqab since she turned thirteen. We carry on in secret, falling deeper and deeper into a pit that I don't think we can escape. Her drunken revelries and sexual exploits are all that matter to her in the abyss.

"You know I would never be able to do anything if I married." She says, out of the blue, as we are eating dinner.

"Why is that?" I ask, nonchalantly munching on my food. I already know the answer. This is a conversation we have had several times already. With each variation my guilt punches me in the stomach harder and harder.

"The more I talk to him, his name is Alec, have I told you that? Anyway, the more I talk to him, the more I realize how deeply in love with the Quran and Allah he is. I would never be seen in public, except completely covered. I would be nothing but a child bearer to him. A sexless sex toy. I wonder if I would even be allowed to continue to read?"

"Maybe he isn't half as bad as you think he is." I say. She looks shocked that I should defend this faceless evil named Alec.

"Maybe you should marry him then." She says, in a snarky tone. "How would you enjoy being used like a doll for his wants and desires?"

"I wouldn't like that, but you don't know if that is the way he is. You told me once that the Quran encouraged respect of women and that your mother chose to be covered so that she would remain pure and set apart for Allah. If that is true, and he loves the Quran and Allah so much, maybe he will respect you as you ought to be respected. Maybe he would not demand that you be covered. Maybe he would actually try to please you sexually. You don't know him well enough to judge him."

"And you don't know him well enough to defend him." She sets her fork down, a little forcefully. I wince at the sound. This is the first time I've tried to argue with her. Normally I would just let her rant and then let her seduce me. Normally I would pretend for a moment that I am in love with her and that we can hide this forever.

"Well, you are always speaking so cruelly about him. I can't help but feel sorry for him. From what you've told me it seems that he is trying to be kind."

"I don't understand why you would want to defend him at all! You do know that my parents are trying to force me to marry this man? That would be the end of us, the end of my life as I know it now."

I keep quiet, though I want to continue to argue. I don't want to argue, really. I just want her to see some other point of view. I take another bite of my food, signalling an end to the discussion. She doesn't seem to think it is over, however.

"I know that you are not like me, Abra. I know that you still hold warm thoughts and memories for men. I can see it sometimes. But you don't know men like I do. You don't understand them like I do. You haven't had to live with them like I have."

Again, I do not respond. I let her rant. After she is done, she puts back on her coverings and doesn't even bother to kiss me goodbye. She leaves, slamming the door. I clear away the dishes and clean up. I feed Snuggles and wonder how I will ever get out of this mess without hurting her. I suppose there isn't a way, unless she decides to leave me.

It is a week before she comes over again. I find that I have missed her intensely as soon as I see her through the peephole. She doesn't bother with hello or how have you been? She pulls off her veil and kisses me. I have taught her too well and she takes me on the floor of the entryway.

We don't say a word the entire evening. We eat a simple meal and I let her do as she pleases. Every now and then I will look up and see her gray eyes staring at me intently. She looks at me, looks through me. I feel as though she can see the guilt building inside of me. She says nothing, though.

She leaves quietly, while I am in the bathroom preparing for bed. When I come out she is gone and I am alone with my cat.

The next night she comes over again. This time we carry on a lively conversation on poetry and she lets me read some of what she has written. I blush to see that she has written poems dedicated to me.

"Can I keep some of these?" I ask, holding one particular poem to my heart.

"I will have to make copies first, but yes you can." She smiles and kisses me.

She stops as she prepares to leave for the evening.

"I've been thinking that we should run away together. Find a place where we could get married and live happily ever after, like in a fairy tale. Wouldn't that be lovely?" She looks at me, her eyes sparkling.

My blood runs cold and my heart comes to a screeching halt. I blink, once, twice.

"You can't be serious." I say. "Think of everything you would be leaving behind. Besides that where would we run? What would we do?"

"No, I'm not serious." She laughs. "I had you going for a moment though, didn't I? I would love to run, though. Free of my burqa, my religion, my demanding parents. It would be nice, though, don't you think?" She laughs again and finishes putting on her niqab. She kisses me and leaves before I can say anything else.

"I can't continue doing this," I tell myself. I feel as though I have stuck my head in the lion's mouth and the only way to get it out is to have it bitten off.

I go out to get groceries and run into David. He has let his hair grow out a little and he looks as handsome as ever. He tries to talk to me and, at first, I ignore him. I grab my items and go through the line as quickly as possible, but he follows me.

"Come on, Abe, talk to me. Can't we at least try to act like civilized adults?"

I turn a venomous gaze on him, making him go silent for a few moments. However, he proves more persistent than I thought he would be. He follows me to my car and after I have put my groceries in it he grabs me by the arms and pushes me against the car.

"I just want to talk, Abra." He says.

"It doesn't feel like you 'just want to talk', David. Let me go." I try to shake free, but it doesn't work.

"Not until you agree to talk to me. Please." I nod, unwillingly, and rub my arms after he lets me go.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask.

"Anything. How have you been? What are you doing now? Did you get that job at the accounting firm?"

"I'm fine, no thanks to you. I am getting groceries, as you can see. And yes, I got the job. May I go now?"

"Why are you acting like this? All I am doing is trying to be friendly." He throws his hands in the air in frustration. When he does that I notice a glint of silver on his finger.

"You are married now?" I say, stunned. It doesn't feel like it has been nearly long enough for him and Alice to have married.

"Yeah, we eloped to Vegas a few weeks ago." He has the decency to look a little ashamed. He runs his fingers through his hair and then looks at his ring.

"Then we have even less to say to one another. I hope you and Alice are happy together." I try to open my car door, but he closes it again. When I turn around he kisses me. I try to pull away, but find myself melting into it instead. His hands move down to my hips and he presses against me. I feel like I am on fire, even as I try to smother the flames.

"I miss you." he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. "I miss you so much."

"I miss you too." I say, even as I try not to. He kisses me again and all I can think about is his body and mine intwined. I hate this. I hate him. I want him so much. I have been burning for him since the night of Sophie's homecoming dance. I have been trying to substitute his touch with another's, but I can't replace him. I can't forget him. I can't forgive him. And, God help me, I am still in love with him.

He takes my keys, locks my car doors and pulls me into his car. We don't drive very far, just down to a secluded part of a near-by park. His kisses get more urgent and I find myself completely pliant. He pulls down my pants and lets his hands wander where they will. Without thinking I begin to undo his belt buckle and unbutton his pants in a move that looks practiced. We are in the back seat then and he is inside me. I suppress the tears that I know are about to break lose as I give in to what I have been wanting. What he has been wanting.

When he is done, he allows me to finish. Always the selfish lover. I put my clothes back on. I feel disgusting. I feel used. I feel like the doll that Jahan mentioned. I feel so guilty. Because he's married now, because I am with a beautiful woman who loves me, because I never really wanted this. I am so ashamed of my behavior that I don't wait for him to drive me back to my car. Without a word, I get out and walk. He trails me in his car.

"Get in the car, Abra. What are you doing?"

"I can't David. Just leave me alone. You've had what you want, now just let me go." I keep walking, my arms crossed over my chest.

"Please, Abe, just get in the car. Tell me what's wrong."

I stop and look at him. He brakes, throwing it in park. He comes over to me, tries to take my hand.

"What's wrong? David, we just had sex, in your car. In a park no less! And you ask me what's wrong?"

"We've had sex in my car many times, why is that such a big deal?"

"Because we were together then! You weren't married to someone else! You weren't just using me, at least I didn't think so at the time. She may be able to sleep with you when you are with someone else, but I can't. Not without a heavy conscience. Not without regretting every moment as it is happening."

He looks at me, bewildered. How dare he play dumb right now?

"What's wrong with you?" I scream, hitting him in the arm. "You love Alice, so you cheat on her with me? You love me so you cheat on me with her? Why did you even propose if you loved her so goddamn much? What the hell is wrong with you? I hate you! I hate you!"

He raises his arms to defend himself and I hit him until I can't hit anymore. I hit until I am more bruised and broken than he is.

"I did love you. I still do." he says, lamely. "I love her too. She's the one who told me to stay with you. The one who encouraged me to propose. Then, at the last minute she said she couldn't stand to watch us get married. That she loved me too much to let me go."

"Excuses, excuses, David. If you truly loved me, you wouldn't have left me waiting in the church rectory. You would've been a man and told me the truth. All this time and you still can't tell me the whole truth."

"Fine, you want the truth? The truth is I've always been in love with Alice. She is my first love. She gave herself to me and I gave myself to her. Yes, I lied when I said that you were my first. I was only with you because you were so damn pathetic. I felt sorry for you. You loved me so much and I guess I just wanted to make you happy. Alice even encouraged this, because you were her friend. But it went further than either of us thought it would and when it came time to follow through with the promises I made to you I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I couldn't because I loved Alice and I have never truly 'loved' you."

I stand there in shock. My heart has stopped and there is a roaring in my ears. My stomach is in knots and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I pull away from him, tears streaming down my face and I walk back to my car. He doesn't follow now. He lets me go.

I get to my car just before my stomach hits my mouth. I sob as I throw up. I sob until I am completely limp. I can't even drive myself home. I pull my cell out of my pocket and call Noah. He gets there a lot faster than I thought he could. He loads my groceries into his car before helping me in and taking me home. I am quiet all the way home, though Noah asks over and over what is wrong. I can't bring myself to tell him.

He helps me inside and I collapse on the couch. I feel like a wilted flower in a raging desert. He tries to coax me out of my silence with ice cream and alcohol. He tries everything he can to get me to talk, but I just can't. I can't.

Finally he gives up and just holds me. I don't resist. I let him hold me, I let him smooth my hair and kiss my forehead. I let him ramble soothingly for I don't know how long. As the day drags into night he begins to try, again, to get me to talk. He fixes me something to eat, but I can't eat it.

He carries me into my room, as I have lost all the will to move, and helps me change into pajamas. He then tucks me into bed and lies down next to me. He hums a lullaby, while he holds me. I begin to cry again and he lets me. I don't know how long it takes, but eventually we fall asleep. My face swollen from crying and his shirt soaked from my tears.

I wake up with a sore throat from all my screaming, crying and vomiting. I can barely talk above a whisper. Noah is still asleep, his arms wrapped around me, protectively. I feel like crying again, but discover I have no more tears to cry at the moment.

I try to move without waking Noah up, but when I begin to stir so does he. He snaps into full awareness when he sees my puffy face and still tear-bright eyes.

"Are you able to tell me what's wrong now, hon?"

"Maybe once I've had a drink." I croak. "My throat hurts."

"I can imagine from all the crying you did. Of course, I can only account for the crying you did in my presence. God only knows how long you were crying before you called me."

"It felt like forever." I whisper. We go into the kitchen where Noah makes me cup of warm tea.

"What happened, Abe?"

"I ran into David at the grocery." I say, taking another sip of tea.

"Just running into him was enough to make you this catatonic?"

"No. I didn't just run into him. Noah, David and Alice got married. In Vegas, apparently." I wait a moment, trying to gain some courage for the next part.

"I'm not surprised. Since they have been doing this for who knows how long, it is only to be expected that they would get married rather quickly."

"That's not it, though Noah. I had sex with David. In his car. And he is married to Alice. I had sex with him and I'm in a relationship with a beautiful, and rebellious, young woman. And the only reason he was ever with me was because I was so pathetic he felt sorry for me. I'm still so pathetic, Noah." I burst into tears and lean against his shoulder.

He has no words for what I have done. I have no words for it either. I feel so disgusting. I need a shower. I need something to scrub this out of me. I need something to make me forget.

I pull away from Noah. He has even teared up a little and I feel even more guilt.

"Go home, dear. I need a shower. And Jahan may be coming over tonight. I couldn't stand for you to be here when I tell her."

"Are you sure? I can stay however long you need me."

"I can't ask that of you. Besides, there are some things I have to do on my own. You can't always be here to pick up the pieces."

Reluctantly, he leaves me. Once he is gone, fresh sorrow comes. I manage to drag myself into the shower, but only half-heartedly clean myself. I can't summon the strength to do anything. Instead, I slide down to the floor of the tub and hug my knees to my chest while I cry some more.

Eventually I pull myself together enough to get out of the, now cold, water. I dress slowly in jean shorts and a Minnie Mouse t-shirt. I slip on my fuzzy Kermit slippers and pour myself another cup of tea. I try to eat something, but can't bring myself to. I feed the cat instead.

Around eight, there is a knock on the door. I know it is Jahan, but I still peek through the peephole. I open the door slowly as she comes in. She takes one look at me and stops unwinding her veil.

"What's happened?" she says, her hands coming up to caress my swollen face.

"Don't worry about it." I say, brushing her hands away. She seems to make the sincere attempt and finishes undressing. Though she is standing before me naked, I do not feel any stirring. I feel no lust or desire. My only thought is to get her a pair of my jeans and a t-shirt.

"What is wrong? You don't even want to have sex with me?" She takes the jeans and shirt, ruefully. She seems hurt by my behaviour.

"This sexual and religious rebellion can't last forever, you know."

"Where is this coming from? What happened today?"

"We can't continue like this." I say, trying to make her see, make her understand. "Eventually you have to face who and what you are."

"It can last as long as we want it to!" She exclaims. I have never seen her angry. I have seen her in a passionate fury, but never angry. Not like this. It is coupled with fear, I can see it in her eyes. She is afraid for me, of me. She grabs me and tries to kiss me. I shove her away, but she tries again. And, again, I shove her away.

"Why don't you want me, Abra?"

"I don't want our relationship to be like this!" I finally say. I feel so defeated. Since she first told me that she wanted me I have fucked this up. At this point, there is no way she is walking away unscathed.

"You don't want us to be about sex? Fine. It doesn't have to be. I love you for more than the sexual pleasure you give me."

"No, I don't want us to continue hiding everything. It can't last forever, Jahan. One day it has to stop being rebellion."

"How do you want it to be then? Do you want me to out myself to my family? Give up everything to be with you? I will do that. Do you want me to spit in the face of everything I've known? Fine, I will do that. Is that what you mean? Do you want me to burn my burqa and shred my niqab? Consider it done. It will no longer be rebellion. It will be my choice. Will that make you happy?"

"No. I don't want you to do any of that for me. Or anyone else. If you choose to reveal yourself let it be for your sake alone. Not mine."

"I gave myself to you. Told you I loved you."

"I know." The guilt is overwhelming. Not just for the loss of her innocence, but for everything.

"I want to be your lover."

"But I can't be what you want, Jahan."

She looks confused and hurt. She looks furious and so in love. I  imagine I looked the same way when David abandoned me at the altar. I imagine I looked that way yesterday when he told me the truth.

"Can't we try?"

"No."

"Why not?" she demands.

"Because I have been unfaithful. And I always will be unfaithful to you. No matter how I wish I wasn't."

"What are you talking about? Unfaithful how?"

"I am still in love with my ex. I had sex with him. I'm sorry. I didn't want to do this. I swear, I wanted an easy parting."

"You had sex with your ex." She is in the same state of shock I was. She slowly takes off my clothes and begins to put on her own.

"I did." I say. I want her to hate me. At this point I deserve no less. I hate myself even more.

"I should go." She says. She sounds like a zombie, winding her niqab. I grasp her shoulders so that those tear bright eyes are looking into my own.

"I do care about you, I do. Please understand."

"So that's why you've never said 'I love you' to me. You don't love me. You've been using me. You saw me as a doll to be played with. I thought you were different. I thought you loved me. I hate you!" She tears out of my grasp and flies toward the door.

"No, I never meant to use anyone!" I follow her. This isn't what I wanted, but it is what I deserve.

"But you did. And now, I hope you are happy. I hope you are happy with a man who doesn't love you and only uses you for your body. I hope that you regret this moment for the rest of your life." With that she leaves, slamming the door behind her. Out of my life forever.

The next day there is a piece of paper slipped under my door notifying me of Jahan's intentions to marry Alec. Have I ruined her life? Could she ever love Alec? Or will she be a slave as she predicted?

I have felt nothing but guilt throughout this relationship. I used a beautiful girl, without meaning to. Cheated on her. Broke her heart. Corrupted her. Drove her to enslave herself to a man she doesn't love for a religion she no longer believes in.

All for what? For a man who never actually loved me, who only used me. All because I couldn't fall in love with her. I feel as though I have destroyed a stained glass window. Or a rare rose garden. I can't forgive myself.

Tonight, I need to get drunk.

All of Her: Chapter Eleven

It has been two weeks since the "I love you" incident. Our relationship hasn't grown cold, per say, but it certainly hasn't retained its heat. He hasn't said it again, either. Which can't be a very good sign. Not that I could say it now anymore than I could've then.

We seem to be successfully avoiding our feelings about the situation. Mostly by flying glow stick kites and watching old movies. We even go dancing at "Alice's Wonderland" once or twice. Avoiding the feelings has to end eventually. We have no choice.

Clark is older than I am. He wants to settle down. I know that he wants to get married and have kids, move into a beautiful one story house in the suburbs. He dreams about it often. I can't give that dream to him. My own failed fairy tale ending has made me bitter and skeptical of any dreams. I can't be Mrs. Samson with a baby on my hip in a three bedroom house in Suburbia Heaven. That isn't who I am. It isn't who I want to be anymore.

"Let's go out to dinner, Abra." He says. He smiles, but it seems fake somehow. This whole week has been us faking. We've been playing pretend and its time to come back to reality. I know what he is planning, but I play ignorance. By the end of this self-destructive spiral I should become an actress in Hollywood. I could win an Oscar for these kinds of performances.

"Sure." I say, faking a cheery tone. "Where shall we go?"

"Let's go to the Hob-Knob, its close and we haven't eaten there in a while."

We walk arm-in-arm and I tease him into skipping with me while we whistle "We're off to see the Wizard." We arrive at the Hob-Knob Cafe out of breath from laughing and skipping. Its the first time we've really laughed in two weeks.

Once inside we order a pot of White Cherry tea and some cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches. We order a few other things before handing off the menus and smiling, somewhat nervously, at one another.

I take a sip of my tea and glance around. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Clark looks nervous. I, in turn, am now nervous, though I am sure I know what is about to happen. I try to appear nonchalant and clueless.

"What's wrong?" I ask, taking another sip of tea. The waiter comes up with our food and for a moment we are distracted with rearranging the table. I repeat the question once the waiter has disappeared and wait, resigned to what I know is coming.

"I want to ask you something. I am just unsure of how you will react." He takes a sip of his tea. My stomach is in knots, bracing for the question.

"The best way to find out," I say. "is just to ask."

He takes a deep breath, as if he was getting ready to plunge into an icy pool. I mimic his deep breath and hold it.

"I am wanting a more serious commitment. I want us to be more than sex partners. I want to get married, eventually. Have children. I really care about you, Abra, but I have to know if this is something you want too. I am wanting something more out of this relationship. Do you want that too?"

Slowly, I let out the breath I was holding and set my cup back on its saucer. He wants an answer I am not willing to give. I can't force myself to love him. Even though I'd like to. He looks reservedly expectant. I have paused too long, he knows my answer. He sighs and takes another sip of tea.

"I care about you too, Clark," he holds up a hand, silencing me.

"But not enough to continue on the path I suggested. I knew that you didn't want more. It was apparent when I told you I loved you. I meant it then. I mean it now. I can't force you to have feelings for me that you don't want to have, but I can't continue trying when I know we're not going to go any further than this."

I tear up a little. This isn't quite how I saw "us" ending, though I knew it would end. I do care about him. I have enjoyed our time together and, in my mind, I carefully begin to place all of my lovely memories in a box labeled "Clark."

"Can we still be friends?" I ask, quietly. My tea looks cloudy with a chance of loneliness.

"Of course, darling." He takes my hand and looks at me with those beautiful eyes. "This is why I was nervous. I was afraid you would be upset and not want to talk to my anymore. I would hate to lose a friend on top of losing a lover."

I manage a water smile. We finish our tea and our dinner. He drives me home and we kiss goodnight, our last kiss as a couple. He then kisses my cheek and I watch him leave. I sigh heavily as I unlock my door and kick off my shoes. I pick up Snuggles and nuzzle him for a little while.

I am not sure how to go about being friends with an ex. That didn't happen with David. I suppose it couldn't, though. We'd been together too long and the betrayal had cut too deep. This break-up with Clark was sweeter, more gentle. No betrayal, no deep wounds. Just a gentle parting of ways, just like I wanted.

I listen to music for a little while and finish editing my final paper before graduation. It is due tomorrow and the practices for commencement are next week. While I am not graduating valedictorian, I am still graduating with honors and my speech is also due tomorrow.

I am nervous for graduation, sad for my break-up with Clark and eager for the next chapter in my life to unfold. Maybe, once I've graduated, I'll go to "Alice's Wonderland" and dance with somebody who will want to come home with me. Maybe I'll try to date a woman this time around. Or maybe I'll just skip dating altogether and just sleep around. Isn't that more self-destructive in the long run?

I wonder if Clark will still go glow stick kite flying with me. Is it acceptable for friends to do things they did as a couple?

"What do you think, Snuggles?" I lift him up and look in his eyes. He meows at me to put him down. I smile and set him down. I guess I'll just have to find out on my own.

I do cry a little. I think that is to be expected with any relationship ending. Of course, I don't know for sure since this is only the second relationship I've ever had, let alone end. I wish I hadn't wasted so much time on David. He took so much from me. I let him take so much from me. I practically shoved it into his greedy hands.

I call Noah and invite him over to watch movies with me. I don't want to be alone tonight. I am not completely broken up over Clark, but there is an uncomfortable ache in-between my ribs.

He brings ice cream and we watch a Cary Grant movie, Snuggles curled up in my lap.

"Want to talk about it?" He asks after a little while.

I shake my head and eat another spoonful of ice cream. If I talk about it I may actually cry. I keep thinking that I could've been happy with Clark. I could've fallen in love with him, but I am too stubborn. I hurt him. Not intentionally, but he loved me and wanted to build something with me. I am an idiot for acting like this, but I'm too stubborn and stupid to give it up.

So we don't say a word, just eat ice cream and watch movies. Eventually, Noah leaves and I go to bed. I miss Clark already. It was nice, not sleeping alone. It was nice having someone to wake up to. Its over now, though. No point in dwelling on it.

The next day I go to class feeling hung-over. I have dark circles under my eyes that I don't try to hide. My hair is in a messy bun. I am practically wearing my pajamas. I am a mess. I didn't think I would take this so hard. After all, I was the one who was planning it all along.

Jahan's eyes widen when she sees me. I slump in my seat next to her.

"What happened?" she asks. She sounds alarmed.

"My boyfriend and I broke up last night. I guess I'm not taking it as well as I thought."

She hesitantly pats my arm and we don't speak again until class is over. We walk out of class together and she links her arm with mine. We go to the outdoor commons and sit on the grass under a shady tree.

"You can't let one man ruin your whole outlook on life." she says. Again she pats my arm reassuringly. I find that I am not thinking about Clark now. Instead I am thinking about Jahan and her hand on my arm. I am thinking some very interesting thoughts about her. I blush a little, from my audacity.

"I won't let it ruin my outlook." I say, trying to hide my blush. "I just don't know what to do with myself for a little while."

"Would you like to get a drink?" she asks. I am stunned. From our few conversations regarding religion she has made it clear that alcohol is forbidden.

"You mean, like alcohol? Isn't that against your religion?"

"We don't have to drink in public. We could just go back to your apartment. Then no one but us will know." She seems very eager and to be honest, I'm not disinterested myself. I wonder what it would be like to have Jahan at my place, drinking. However, is it wrong of me to feed her rebellious feelings? She has mentioned, once or twice, that she wants to break away from tradition, break away from Islam.

"Why not?" I say. We stand up, brush ourselves off and go to my car. It is only two in the afternoon and I am going home to drink.

We stop by a liquor store and I buy some Bailey's. The clerk shakes his head as he checks me out. I must really look like I'm in dire straits. When I get back to the car, Jahan asks me to stop by the grocery store.

"I'm a little hungry," she says. We go in and I am stunned into silence when she puts ham salad and lobster spread in the cart. She does it so quickly it looks as if the items flew off the shelf and into the basket of their own free will. I grab some oatmeal cookies and a loaf of wheat bread before heading toward the check out counter. She goes out to the car before me. I can only guess that it is so she isn't seen with me when I purchase the pork and shellfish products.

When we get to my apartment she asks me where the toaster is. She toasts a few slice of bread before slathering lobster spread on one and ham salad on another. While she does this I get two glasses and some ice cubes. We sit on the purple plaid couch and I sit in shock as she pours the Bailey's into the glasses.

"Now, why did you and your boyfriend break-up?" she asks. She lifts her veil slightly to take a drink. I have to shake myself to answer her.

"He wants to get married eventually and I don't. I recently had a very bad break-up with my fiance of ten years. I just can't imagine marrying anyone but him. I just couldn't give him what he needs so we decided to end it." I take a gulp of my drink and try to suppress a sigh of relief as it warms me.

"Typical man, not understanding your wants and needs." she says, haughtily. "I am engaged to a man my parents have picked out. I can't stand him. He doesn't care about my needs or wants at all. He keeps asking me to leave school so that we can marry and begin having children."

"Clark is a nice guy, but I can't fall in love with him." I say, lamely. I don't really know what else to say to her. She takes another drink and then takes a bite of the ham salad on toast. I follow her lead and take a bite out of the lobster spread.

"I don't want to get married." she confides.

"No? Marriage is a beautiful thing. Or so I'm told." I take another sip of my drink.

"You mean eternal slavery to a man who will fuck you and treat you like a servant? No thanks. I'd rather die, to be honest. I would hate to be stifled. That's what would happen you know. I'd be chained and continually stifled. Intellectually, physically, et cetera."

I hold my tongue. Jahan takes another sip of her drink under her veil. I've never seen her face or even the hint of her face. She is so angry at the thought of being stifled, but she continues to wear her veil. She astounds me sometimes.

"I love alcohol." she says. "Why is it forbidden? Pork and shellfish are delicious as well. You know, a friend of mine has been buying these things for me on the sly and I really don't understand why they are wrong. Of course, my father and brothers would kill me if they found out I was drinking and eating these things."

"Why?" I ask.

"Why would they kill me? I thought that was obvious enough."

"Why are you doing this? Why break all the rules? Why be here with me?"

"To say I did it, I suppose. I am an atheist, I think. I don't believe in God or Allah. The Prophet was a man. Jesus was a man. How is he different from any other mythological half-mortal?"

"But you still pray towards Mecca. You still cover yourself in a burqa and niqab. You still celebrate holy days with your family."

"I know. I am the worst kind of atheist. A hypocritical one. I wish I could give it up. Truth be told I am afraid. My family would disown me. I would lose everyone I love. Quietly, I disobey and I do what I want. But I would never do something they could find out about and disown me for."

Again, I hold my tongue. I think Jahan senses my uneasiness. She scoots closer to me.

"Do you know the real reason I am with you right now? Why I suggested, out of the blue, that we should come here and drink?"

"Why?" I look into her gray eyes.

"Because I want you. I have been daydreaming about this moment for quite some time now. I don't want to get married to the man my parents want me to because I'm a lesbian. I spend so much time with you because you are a beautiful woman. I've known for a time, but had not found someone I was comfortable with until you."

I don't know what to say. Without a word she begins to undo her niqab. At first, I look away. This is really fast. Clark and I just broke up yesterday and now I'm in my apartment with a rebellious young woman who is attracted to me. Who I'm attracted to as well. If I am going to sleep around, I might as well do it one after another right?

I feel a little like a postulate whose Goddess is about to be revealed. Is that weird? I feel like I shouldn't be the first person to see her unveiled, like I'm unworthy of it. I sense her stop more than I see it.

"Do you not want this? Should I leave?" She sounds like she may cry at whatever my answer may be. Is it the alcohol talking? Or is this what she truly wants? There is no going back from this.

I look at her. Afraid for her, slightly aroused by her impulsiveness and intrigued by the woman underneath all the cloth.

"Are you ready for the consequences?" I ask. I sound a little like Noah just now.

Her answer is a meek nod. She unwinds and detaches the niqab. Just as I suspected she is beautiful. Her hair is black and curly. A raven cascade of curls reaching to the middle of her back. Her skin is creamy in complexion and she has a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She has a pierced nose and a tiny beauty mark on her left cheek. She smiles at me nervously.

"You're beautiful." I whisper. I don't know why, but I feel a little awed.

"Do you want me too?" she whispers, following my vocal lead.

"Yes and no." I restrain myself from reaching out to touch her face.

"Let's make it only yes." She touches my lips and then kisses me. I kiss her back, finding myself more aroused than I thought I was. All thoughts of Clark or David or how fast everything is moving evaporate. My fingers tangle in her curls. She explores not only my mouth, but my body as well. She is tender though she is slightly frenzied. I find I am in a bit of a frenzy too.

A thought bubbles up. This is probably her first sexual experience with anyone but herself. I will be her first, like David was my first. I find that I don't want to pause for this thought. Instead I kiss her down and along her jawline to her throat. We practically tear off her burqa in our haste. Underneath she is wearing a long sleeve black shirt and long black yoga pants. those are quickly removed to reveal a lacy pink thong with snowflakes on it and a white lace bra.

She stops a moment, breathless. I moan in frustration. Not just because of the sexual heat building up between us, but because my mind returns to the thought of me being her first. She smiles, a sweet dimpled smile, and kisses me lightly on the mouth.

"Are you okay?" I ask. As miserable as I would be I don't want her to do something she doesn't want to. And the longer she hesitates the more I think that I don't want to be her first and then leave her. Because I will leave her. At some point it will end. Just like with Clark, I can't fall in love with her. The sexual feelings come up again, entangled with my thoughts. Can a woman experience blue balls? If so, I am feeling it right now.

"Yes," she breathes. We stand up together and I begin to unhook her bra. The guilt that has been warring with my libido begins to get the best of me. Before I reveal her complete nakedness, I stop.

"What's the matter?" she asks. She looks concerned.

"I can't do this right now. Not like this." I pick up her clothes off of the floor.

"What do you mean you can't? Is there something wrong with me?"

"No! There is nothing wrong with you! Nothing at all. I just... I don't know. I want you. I've been attracted to you for a while now. I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me? Hurt me how?" We sit down again and I look at her beautiful face.

"I only just broke up with my boyfriend. Give me a few days, okay? We'll try all of this again in a few days."

She looks frustrated, confused and a little hurt. It is so beautiful to be able to see the emotions, if only they were happier emotions.

"I promise." I say, kissing her. "It will be worth the wait."