History of Ash by Khadija Marouazi

Author:Khadija Marouazi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press

11

AS SUDDENLY AS MY INTIMATE relationship with Leila began, it ended. Neither one of us could unearth the other anymore. Her body was boiling hot underneath mine. At that moment, I seemed like a madman. Like someone who has found water after seeing a desert mirage. Leila was my water. A woman wrapped up in the shyness of years. Just sensing that was enough to kindle the desire within me. Slipping toward her. Plunging into her. Then conquering her. I wanted to inhabit her. To sweep her up and never let her go. At first, she felt boiling hot, but after a little bit, she turned into a piece of ice. I asked her to move. I would moan, and Leila would move her head out from under me. I pleaded with her, and when my eyes drowned in hers, I found a look that was begging me to stop.

Impossible, Leila. I can’t. I would explode immediately if I left you now. Bear with me for just a little bit, I beg of you. Bear with me.

That was the only time I caught hold of Leila’s body.

“I want to dive deep inside you,” I said.

“You see depths. Maybe all I have is surface.”

“Right now, I’m fine with the surface of depth.”

“How could you reach the depth anyway?”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Are you?”

Thus, Leila slapped me with her answer. I crumpled into my deluded question. That’s how Leila was. I serve her some sticky water, and she offers me up a drop of the water of life. She slipped out from underneath my body and went to the bathroom. Now, I only see Leila by accident or in a narrow street or wide boulevards in my imagination. I no longer see Leila, and she won’t come visit me at home anymore until all that water has dried up. We almost forget that we had intertwined our bodies that day. If only one of us could visit the other in a normal and deep way. But it is a way that no longer possesses the boldness to scratch the surface of what is deep, or dig into the depths of what is shallow.

Leila visited me in Gharbia. After I became accustomed to her visits, and after we had extended our hearts toward one another, I decided to delve into that day we never started together. Because I forgot to forget the day I tasted her. I inserted my tongue into her mouth. She laughed, her tongue playing with mine. And as she tickled my earlobe and the back of my neck, I shivered excitedly. I wanted to devour her. I asked her why she had seemed so hot that day, then after that, became as cold as a piece of ice.

“Your roar frightened me and the bed’s squeaking bothered me . . . “

I exploded into laughter when I heard Leila’s response. I remembered the metal bed and how it squeaked whenever two bodies rubbed up against one another on it. I wondered,

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