The things that are missing

And now. I'm 24. I could say I was trying to find myself. But there
is no way to say it without sounding pretentious. Without using phrases
that have been exhausted. Without using the exact same words that
someone else, in some other time, had used. And I am tired of using
other people's thoughts, sculpting them into something closer to my own
life. I want my own words.

So I go to work everyday. Go home to a house shared with my parents.
And stop thinking about the places I'm trying to go. I pay attention to
the moments that on the surface - mean nothing. The moment when the sky
darkens, the dust hidden, before the streetlamps point to everything
that is wrong with this city. The moment when my parents look at me,
and despite everything I've done wrong, I can see pride in their eyes.
These moments never last long.

After - breathing couldn't be more difficult. But at least I know I'm
still breathing.

And I know there is something missing. I knew the night that I went out
with that married couple. I met him through work. Foreigners living in
Egypt. To them, the crowds were exciting, the life -an adventure. Cairo
was a city to be explored. A crawling metropolis of energy begging for
attention. To me - it was a place I wanted to leave.

And we sat in that coffee shop in Mohandessin, in the heat of July,
looking out on the streets of Cairo. The vendors on the pavements
selling cheap sunglasses, toys, trinkets of little or no use. We were
talking about their plans. Where they wanted to go with their lives.
And I envied their choices.

She wants to finish university, she said, and then laughing, with a
quick side-glance to her husband, that she wants to have two children.
He frowned for a moment. Almost too quick to notice. But I saw. And you
could tell - this was their cross. This was what was missing in their
lives. And I didn't know why. Didn't know if it was because he wasn't
ready. Or if it was too late. I couldn't tell. But I could tell they
had fought about it. And I felt that I had crossed into a moment that I
was not meant to witness.

The moment passed. I crossed back over that line. Back into my life and
out of theirs. And he changed the subject. Then through the noise, the
heat, the crowds, time seemed to stop as he looked over at his wife. He
smiled at her and I knew what was missing in my life.

I thought, maybe he's sitting somewhere in a coffee shop, looking at a
couple, smiling. Maybe he's realizing what he wants. What's missing.
Just like me. But I don't know who he is. Not yet. Somewhere in another
place, in what feels like another world, he speaks. And I can almost
hear him.

My father has found a suitable man for me. That's what he thinks -
although they have never met. He's a lawyer, he said. He's 34. He
speaks perfect English. Went to university in New York. On the surface
he seems like the perfect match. That's what my father says. And he
might be. But that's not how I'm going to find what's missing in my
life. I promised myself that a long time ago.

It's supposed to be a chance meeting. It's supposed to come out of
nowhere - when I least expect it. Take me by surprise. Sweep me off my
feet. So that we can look back, say things like, "Remember when we
met?" and marvel at how fate brought us together. But things rarely end
the way they should. Rarely begin the way we want them to.

It's always the same thing. Starting slowly, anticipation building, to
a point where we think we can take no more. And it all falls
apart.

I don't want it to fall apart.

And I don't want to look back and say, in an attempt to convince
ourselves more than anyone else, "It wasn't arranged. It was our
choice."

But if I do what my father wants - it won't be my choice.