She couldn’t understand his skin, his floppy brown hair, his gray-blue eyes, light brown eyes, hazel green, dark blue. His skin more vibrant and darker than a snow Paris’s should have been; his hair not blond enough; not dark enough; his downward curving eyes, color now forgotten, more sad.
But maybe, her own sadness was there, not his. He was happy and floppy. He was there. She was there too. She was lost. She drowns in his left eye. She looks directly at him. Memories collapse. Fifty meters, thirty, twenty, ten. The distance between them closed. He walked the distance. But there was brooding in his downward eyes, she was sure. A young man’s passion and arrogance and irony, and in droplets, his insecurity, piercing the way only a young man’s could.
She saw all that. She saw it go away. She saw him get closer. She saw it all being replaced with a tricky mysterious, eye rolling confidence. It goes away, the young man’s feminine beauty.
These were not only her words. Thoughts. Not just mine. They were also that woman’s: Mail Al-Nakib. But they were still there.
Waves licked the sides of a ship aching to move, to escape the trap of land. Anchors aweigh to sail on the merry sea, now black with night, to the land of love and hatred, elsewhere. Murmurs and whispers. They stemmed to each other. Straining to hear them. Half-sentences, half-words strung together, just like popcorn, you know.
Pretty. Stars. Far away. Island escape. Fragile. Tonight. Trembling. Cold. If only. Language failed. Silence like before the phantom kiss.
He loved her. She saw it. She walked passed him. He loved her goodbye.