December Rain

I'm not angry anymore.

She realized this standing outside the decrepit bookstore on Sherif Street, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

The past eight months of fury had kept her head up high, her muscles tense, and her eyes fierce; and now she was exhausted.

Shivering outside of the store under the surprising December rain (it came as a shock every time it rained in Cairo, even in the heart of winter. People would gasp, bundle up as if it were minus twenty and drive their cars like slow turtles, afraid to skid on the wet roads), it took one look inside to know that he was there and realize that all this time of fighting and dreading had brought her back to nothing. Back to here, their favourite place, where the scent of aged leather and forgotten papers blended with a warm mould that only time could bring.

Sooner or later, they would have to run into each other. In this city of eight million, they were bound to cross paths. That’s the irony of Cairo, the beauty of this city; you are never really alone. Everyone knows you through everyone else. It is nearly impossible to hide from unwanted faces.

Gumboots are difficult to find in Cairo, and her thin canvas shoes were filling up quickly with muddy pavement water. She had anticipated this moment, acted out the dialogue in her head, taking pleasure in the fantasy of slapping his face a few times (back and forth with a loud smack). She would make some perfect, biting comment about his having outgrown his boyish haircut, or anything that would sting long after the red marks across his cheek subsided.

Now it was all gone. And she was surprised, like Egyptians at the rain, to find that all she wanted to do was step into the store, say hello, and breathe in his familiar cologne among the dusty bookshelves.

Eight months of fury/misery, tossing and turning through insomniac nights, talking and talking her little head off to her long-suffering friends about his faults/betrayals/pointless existence, eating/not eating, smoking like a chimney and staying out as late as possible so as to avoid acknowledging that she was once again alone in her bed.

Christmas had always been their favourite time of the year together, where she would curl up on his lap next to Rana's overgrown Christmas tree, sip on Gluhwein and share her brandy cream with him. They would talk babies, lawn-mowers, the colour of their bedroom walls; all the little lies you tell each other in the bliss of denial. All the dreams you build when there’s no ground to base it on.

He was back home to spend the holidays with his parents, to go to midnight mass at Mary Guirgis, where the bright lights dazzle the Nile Corniche and cars slow down for a glimpse of the glory inside. He probably missed his family, his dog Puka, his mother’s home-cooked fatta, and her?
He had tried to call her on her birthday, to wish her joy and luck on another day spent without him. It’s ok.

And now here he was, clearly seen through the dirty window pane, rifling through the red, leather-bound journals that he once loved to buy her. Hers had been filled with whimsical doodles, recipes and poetry- in between lines there was the earnest hope that maybe she could look past his bouts of anger and he could forgive her laziness, and maybe then they could book the church and plan a winter wedding. His had been filled with plans, lists, people to call, and duties to finish- and in between, nothing.

Every Christmas for the past four years, he had bought her a new journal from the kind but overly inquisitive Mr. Amin. She used to think it was a small but tender gesture, a sign that there was more beneath his sharp suit and bursting ambition to get out of this Godforsaken country to make a decent living. Beneath, she was supposed to be there.

Now, the journals merely seemed cheap and contrite, an easy gift that he could send his driver to pick up on his way to work, put it in a paper bag, don’t forget to pick up a card; scribble ‘With All My Love’ the same way you would to your grandmother.

A car passed by and honked its horn aggressively. She had stepped back off the pavement onto the street, slowly inching her way away from him.

What now? Say hi and Merry Christmas, ask about Mass and if his mother’s making the goulash this time? Allow him to tell her about his wonderful new life abroad and all the beautiful women he’s met in Germany? Should she tell him she’s started drinking and flirting again just to spite his absence, to prove that she’s moved on? Has she moved on?

Last Christmas, long before the ground gave way; he had pulled her wet boots off her tired feet, warmed her cold socks between his hands, as she had sat on his lap by the fire and listened to Bocelli singing about Goodbye. How ironic, how perfect that moment had been.

She turned back to the store, about to walk away and then she caught his eye. He was standing there, staring straight at her, one hand clutching a leather-bound journal and the other was raised in a half-hello. He seemed frightened, vulnerable, unprepared for the sight of her.

Sooner or later, in the city of eight million and a hundred forgotten bookstores, they were bound to cross paths.

She could feel the water between her toes, soaking her socks through. Silly girl, wear your boots next time. He had always kept her feet warm. And now, staring back at him, she knew she was just not ready to step forward and acknowledge that life had gone on without her.

That journal was not for her. Who, then, was it for?