Awkward/ Alight

Your birthday was in October. I know this because we shared the belief that Librans have an odd connection to each other, and you and I, we were strange.

I've wanted to call you up, but at some point in those months of fretful/sleepless obsession, I had decided to expel you from my life by deleting your phone number and your emails, all ten thousand of them. The only person who had you in common was She, and whenever I carefully mentioned your name, she would shudder and change the subject.

I understood that shudder; I remember it when our arms pressed against each other as you showed me your freckles, a constellation of some sort along your arm. They were almost perfectly aligned with the ones dotted along my arm, proof that this strange little affair was based on more than endless conversations on God, Latin literature, Massive Attack and food.

We sat in an organic cafe on the corner of Portobello Market, awkward in our t-shirts on that surprisingly sunny morning. Months of languid phone calls that never wanted to end, text messaging, emails, finally you were there in front of me, and there was nothing to say.

Yet I shivered when your skin pressed against mine, when you bumped into me as we navigated the crowds of overenthusiastic Italian tourists gasping over the stalls of silver spoons and broken clocks.

When you cracked a lame joke and I saw your crooked teeth, I thought you looked nothing like that photo of you falling asleep in your bed; the one you'd sent me at three am when I was in mine.

You were wrong. I knew that, you knew that, and you decided to be an asshole as soon as you'd discovered that She was my friend. That's okay. You had hoped for someone different, someone unconnected to your former life in Cairo, and out of all the people in this town, she was my friend, and so you could not be.

I understand, yet I couldn't explain the feeling of half-air, half-real that I carried as I walked away from you towards Notting Hill station, knowing you were still there on the corner, watching me. Or the nights I spent obsessively checking my phone, wanting/waiting/willing you to call, tell me that you missed me. And when you did the world was alight again and I could finally fall asleep.

When I danced, you were in my head as my eyes navigated the crowd and I remembered your jealousy when you said you didn't want me to dance with other men. You were the only one who could make possessiveness seem sexy, almost reasonable, even to someone as untrainable as me.

Whenever you called, I would sneak into a bedroom, a cupboard, a dark corner of the kitchen and listen to your quiet, throaty voice that kept me going for days. You humored my silly banter, you found me adorable, and I adored you when you let your guard down, stopped spouting intellectual nonsense and made jokes instead.

One day, I stood outside my friend's house, amidst the mud and dust of downtown Cairo, and out of nowhere I thought of you, and then you texted me. You had nothing to say, except that you were thinking of me right then in your grey glassy cubicle in Canary Wharf, and I in the dust of Falaky Street, at the same time.

Somehow, we connected, and I still can't explain why I continue to think of you, why I miss you even though it's been months since we talked and I'm sure you've found another young soul to fascinate you, to adore you in your idle solitude.

I wonder how that brilliant mind of yours let me in and then shut off, oh so easily, when I still struggle to forget. I remember that hopeless, helpless romantic thought of yours that I would come to London, and if we hit it off, if sparks flew, I would stay with you. Just like that.

Sparks did fly as we stood in your kitchen, attempting to chop the vegetables when neither of us could keep a straight face or focus on our knives out of sheer glee and giddiness of being together. After dinner,I decided to seduce you by crossing my legs, putting down my mug and asking you to come sit next to me on the couch. You said no.
I get it.

Months later, I stand on my balcony and watch the Cairo lights against the December night, tapping a vague rhythm against the freckles along my arm. You may never be explained, and I may never get an answer. She has your number, but I have my pride, and if She knew she'd be hurt and at least she's still here. At least she answers when I call.

I hope you're happy in your glass cubicle overlooking the Thames. I heard it's snowing; you must be cold in your bed. And I wish you would call me up, tell me your miss my banter and ask for us to be friends again so that I could say no, just like that.

But knowing you, me, and that moment on Portobello Road when you bumped into me and held my waist awkwardly, I probably wouldn't.