The Arab Boy.
The story happened to me at work the other day. He didn’t show up the next day, likely he got fired, but we warmed each other’s heart, a spark of pure goodness surrounded in the darkness
Black pants
black shirt,
some say he’s got a dark soul,
but all I saw was
the adolescent eyes,
filled with curiosity, attraction,
pinch of fear
and burning impulse
to cross the forbidden bridge.
He takes the first step,
approaching slowly, casually,
our eyes meet,
a boost of confidence at least.
He wears no mask,
revealing the widest smile,
I answer back with joyful eyes,
squinting like a relaxing cat.
Distance meter,
maybe less,
the way he laughs
as he stops his runway show,
hinting at the large quantities
of not so fine
alcoholic beverages,
untying the insides.
He is surprised and not,
that I figured it so fast,
telling me to ask all the questions that I have,
the mind starts working overtime,
two steps ahead and nineteen back,
then back again.
He gave up,
now doesn’t hide his intoxication,
starts telling me about his piety before,
five times a day, a gift for Allah,
but got betrayed, his sister left in shambles,
while classmates laughed at him.
He then lifts up his shirt,
brown stab wound,
like ink spillage on the painting,
a hideous, unnatural, and foreign
a defect on the sculpture.
Unconvincing story.
I read between the lines
and understand, that he is also
an aficionado of the male form,
the shame of family, a walking curse.
Then out of nowhere
he hugs me
with a hug reserved for lovers, brothers, and best friends.
I see judging eyes passing by,
I ignore the stare
and return the warmness stocked.
Close to my ear,
he whispers,
I wish you the highest
biggest and the best Jannah.
Just two people,
no politics, talking life
breathing rain,
speaking in the language of the unknown.
