His violence was maddening for a jerk with a lute who drank his coffee blacker than freud’s abyss – no diluted sugar, no added milkiness. She was a child and she knew he smelled it in her fanciful talk, full of crazy and God. He was a lusty little boy and she tasted it in his persistent passion, charming in its foolish perseverance.
While they sat on the very same edge of the same troubled surface of murky water, he fished for milfs and naked hags and she sifted the waters with her trembling fingers, searching for cheap magic and muted scenes from indies and cult films about dirty young lovers. He wanted a kiss and a lap dance, she wanted to drown the world in her biscuit fantasies. He wanted glory, she wanted tragedy. They feared each other’s needs. They were bored and terrified of them, occasionally titillated. They lived, breathed and filled their bellies and heads with romance and steamier subjects of conversation.
***
text // amna alshehhi
art // waad albawardi