We were watching TV, drinking wine, snacking in bed and enjoying it immensely because mature people shouldn’t be leaving crumbs in bed.
I was laughing at a particularly funny scene of The Big Bang Theory when you handed me a cracker with a piece of garlic Boursin (yummm) and I distractedly said “thanks hayete”.
And you asked me what “hayete” means. Anyone who knows me should know this word because I abuse it in the most annoying way. And you know me!
Or maybe not that well. A few days before, you had asked me why I read Lebanese local news in English, why I don’t own any books in Arabic, and why I sometimes speak to my Iraqi friend in English. The answer took a whole afternoon. I had to explain my school, basically structured like a French colony; a national education system where math and sciences are either in French or in English, never in Arabic; I had to explain classical Arabic vs. Dialects, and why I think the Dialects should be recognized as official languages. I had to explain confused Lebanon and Beirut my rebellious babe.
Because if you don’t know these things you don’t know me.
And now “hayete”? That tacky irritating over-used term of endearment that carries all the sweetness of Arabia to wash down all the bitterness of Arabia. Yes yes, I’m getting carried away, but I’m nothing if not a drama queen, please don’t act so surprised.
How could you not know this word when our level of intimacy was Garlic In Bed On A Friday Night?
You know me. You’ve been through every centimeter of my body and you’re probably familiar with the cellulite on my ass. You know that in my second drawer on the right, underneath my crazy lingerie collection, I stash a few big cotton knickers for when I get my period. You’ve seen me shave my legs, how could you not notice the history of Lebanon marked somewhere on my skin?
You know everything.
You never judged me when I had anxieties, and you never tried to stop my blue brand of craziness. You were always very careful about everything, except that one time: I still remember the day you noticed the very old, very faint scars on my left arm and you counted them; and then you made me promise I would never ever have any more. I kept telling you the scars were very very old but they made you angry anyway.
You know everything, really everything. It doesn’t matter that we’re done, I’m glad there’s someone out there who knows everything, and I’m glad that it’s you.
But you didn’t understand every word and that thought still makes me sad.