.

She would tell it in spurts, in starts, in fragmented notes-- it would be like some ill-made, reject, jigsaw puzzle, where none of the pieces were even designed to fit. People would ask themselves, What the hell is this?

She's not a storyteller at heart, too bad of a memory, too weak an imagination.

I felt transparent

Like raindrops hanging from a storefront awning in springtime.
Or as if a pack of arrows had gone through her in one shot-her body and spirit had been turned to Swiss cheese.

They'd be sitting side by side as guests, waiting for whatever it would be -- a beer, coffee, or in one case watery noodles. She was like mesh -- practically inviting him to be part of her, or caught up in her.

The person they were waiting for was always in the next building over. You'd see the shadow or silhouette in a towering window. Like the specter of an ex-lover, that's how it felt-the oppressive weight of the past.

Waiting on the couch he'd reach over to hold her knee. She'd feel the hand go through the skin and straight up to her heart.

Had he learned to see through her?
He had learned to see through her.

He'd say: You're crazy. And she'd say, You're right. I can't control myself.
She knew that he had known her.

He'd call her a slut and a whore. And she knew that he had managed to read all of her secret pornographic thoughts.

You're spoiled...I should take you to the refugee camp where I lived, so you can see what suffering is.

I felt transparent. From the beginning it was clear that he was the smarter of the two. He had honed his spirit and senses on some rough moments. She liked this for a change-someone who hadn't been reduced to a series of vapid reactions.

And the thing was, she was addicted to him from the very start, to the salty smell of him between chin and neck, scrotum and leg. Within the first month she had told him, I'll never be the one to leave you. If this is going to end, you'll have to be the one to do it.

What she didn't know about was her own power over him.

He would drive around the block no less than four times looking for the entrance to the Eastbound Freeway. He'd back up, block traffic, go the wrong way down a one way street. She'd say, Look. The sun is rising in THAT direction. Go. That's East.

Finally they'd be driving straight into the morning sunlight. The dazzling rays would reach all the way through her, burning a sting into her eyes. Had they really stayed awake all night? Had they fought all night under streetlights near the ocean? Had he really said all those things?

How could you have been in love with that old professor? I can tell you're still obsessed. Everything you said at their house was directed straight to him. Agh! I can't believe you slept with him!

Only once, before I even met you! I never should tell you anything. You always find a way to use it against me.

Even if you hadn't told me, I would have known. I'm clairvoyant about these things.
By the way, you're taste in men makes me sick.

You don't have to be such an asshole....

Almost every discussion between them could lead to a confrontation. Even a simple one about what to do on a Friday evening. If she said, Lets go see a friend. He'd say, I can't stand anyone. If she said lets go out for a drink, he'd say, What for? If she said, Why do you have to be so difficult? He'd say:

I take life seriously, I'm not always in a good mood. If you don't like me the way I am you should leave. He had a point.

There was this Snickers bar on the dashboard. The night before, when they were driving home from their visit, it kept sliding back and forth every time he turned the car. Snicker Bar to the left. Snicker Bar to the right. The whole time he was berating her, she kept watching it. In the shadows where he parked the car, the brown oblong thing looked almost obscene, like a piece of crap. She kept looking at it, even when she started crying saying,

I know you're right about some things. I don't seem to have any control over myself. I do things out of habit.

You should see yourself. Flirting all night with that pretentious sucker. You selfish mother fucker! he said, slamming the steering wheel.

She looked around the car, outraged. The candy bar caught her eye again. The perfect weapon. She picked the thing up and threw it hard, straight at his head. At first, his face wore a shocked, "How dare you" expression that said, Impossible, impossible. When she saw his dropped jaw, mouth hanging open, she started laughing. Just a teary sniffle at first. Then a giggle. When she saw a hint that his face had softened, she began to laugh, a full-blown belly laugh. He joined her. They laughed together.

Don't Snicker at me! he said. Both of them laughed even louder.

Then soon when they stopped cracking up, he leaned over, saying I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't mean it. You just piss me off. She'd say, I don't know why I do that stuff. I didn't even realize it. They'd kiss. He always had a sweet taste after a fight. As if in one toxic breath he had exhaled all of his bitterness. He'd put his lips on her neck saying, God, I miss you. And dive into her body as if it were water, as if he was so thirsty for even a single drop of tenderness.

Driving East in the morning toward the little cottage they had rented together, she slumped down in her seat, exhausted. Her brain was fried. They had spent fifteen minutes looking for the highway. It felt like hours, and she felt a re-visitation of their terrible night. She tried to think of a word to say to pacify the air between them. Ripping open the candy bar nonchalantly she took a bite, saying to him,

I still can't get over how good your English is, for someone who's only been here five years. That was a good pun, 'How dare you snicker at me.'

He looked at her and said, I didn't say, 'How dare you.'

Whatever. It was a good one.

That's what we Third Worlders do with all our free time, you know. We sit up under our kerosene lamps studying English, hoping one day for our big chance to come to America...

She gave him a sideways look, to see whether he was sneering or smiling. He was smiling, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He rummaged around in the car door pocket next to him, then put on one of his favorite Egyptian cassettes. Oum Kalthoum. A classic. The music erupted with a dramatic sweep of violins.

Come here, he would say at times like this, when the air was too filled with outrageous unresolved tension.

And of course, she'd move over, sitting on the middle bump, with a seat belt buckle jammed up against her ass. He'd drape his arm around her, caressing her shoulder for a second or two. Hunched down low next to him, she'd look over at his right hand, his dark sensuous hand, resting on her shoulder, then suddenly waving in the air to the passionate, rhythmical music. It was a hand that was capable of anything.
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