do or dream you can, begin it;
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
I begin.
If I were to write our love story, no one would believe it. My real-life story is unbelievable. I tell my friends, but they dismiss my love for you as puerile, inconsequential. I tell them what happened and they consider me foolish. Perhaps I never manage to convey how much I loved you. I say it: I love you. I love you so much, my heart aches, a physical hurt. But what does it mean really? Words, nothing but words. If I could show them how much I loved you, how much I love you still, they might see why I stayed, how I let the story unfold. If I could show them, I would be able to explain how I let the cruelest man in the world destroy any remaining dignity I might have had.
So how? How can I describe to a passerby the way I felt about you? I can’t tell stories of what we did together. We did nothing. We never went anywhere, an entire relationship spent in my bed not having sex. Do I describe in loving prose how you look? Do I tell how you held me, how I felt in your arms? I don’t know how. It would have to be something different. I can talk about how it felt when I knew it was over.
In front of a painting. That’s how I knew. Titian. The Flaying of Marsyas . Apollo killed the satyr Marsyas by skinning him alive. His muscles exposed, every vein and sinew seen. Repulsive. Left with nothing to hang on to, no honor, no decency, shamed. I opened myself to you only to be skinned alive. The more vulnerable I became, the faster and more deft your knife. Knowing what was happening, still I stayed and let you carve more. That’s how much I loved you. That’s how much.
On an exceptionally hot evening early in August, I stood on the sidewalk in Beirut waiting for a taxi to take me home.
The Mediterranean sun was still blazing and I was about to faint.
I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of bronchitis and was just beginning to realize I should not have gone out.
Beirut is detestable in August.
Even the air is filthy.
I wanted to be home, in my bed.
It was 1976. The city was beginning to look damaged.
I could feel the ripening sun burn my skin, pale from having spent most of the summer indoors.
I was too skinny, my stepmother said.
Too sickly.
I wore a black linen dress.
The linen was perfect for the weather, but the color was not.
The dress was covered with tiny colorful flowers, a happy motif.
The black was a stark contrast to my skin.
The dress exposed my shoulders, which the sun attacked mercilessly.
Merciless. That evening was merciless.
I watched the cars drive by. No taxis in sight.
I felt a little dizzy, cursing my luck for having to be in Beirut instead of the mountains.
I was sixteen. I should have been invincible.
A taxi approached. It was full. Five passengers already in it.
I felt crushed.
The dress was French, bought from a catalogue. I loved it.
I looked at the sea behind me, oblivious to the play of colors.
I want to tell you my story, not to show how I was hurt, though I was. I simply want someone to note what happened, so that my love affair, four years of my life, is not relegated to some garbage heap. I don’t want you to think of me as a victim. I’m not. I take responsibility for what happened. I’m writing this to get it over with, to finally get completion for that part of my life. I want to tell you before I forget, because he has already forgotten. If there’s anything that’s killing me right now, it’s that he has forgotten. He has forgotten our conversations. He has forgotten what my room looks like. Three years we spent in that room, two nights a week, from seven till midnight, and he can’t remember. He never spent the night, by the way. He always went to sleep in his own bed, at his own house, in some other location in the city. After two years of silence, I was the one who initiated the contact, not him. I’m the one who’s open to patching things up. I haven’t been able
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
I begin.
If I were to write our love story, no one would believe it. My real-life story is unbelievable. I tell my friends, but they dismiss my love for you as puerile, inconsequential. I tell them what happened and they consider me foolish. Perhaps I never manage to convey how much I loved you. I say it: I love you. I love you so much, my heart aches, a physical hurt. But what does it mean really? Words, nothing but words. If I could show them how much I loved you, how much I love you still, they might see why I stayed, how I let the story unfold. If I could show them, I would be able to explain how I let the cruelest man in the world destroy any remaining dignity I might have had.
So how? How can I describe to a passerby the way I felt about you? I can’t tell stories of what we did together. We did nothing. We never went anywhere, an entire relationship spent in my bed not having sex. Do I describe in loving prose how you look? Do I tell how you held me, how I felt in your arms? I don’t know how. It would have to be something different. I can talk about how it felt when I knew it was over.
In front of a painting. That’s how I knew. Titian. The Flaying of Marsyas . Apollo killed the satyr Marsyas by skinning him alive. His muscles exposed, every vein and sinew seen. Repulsive. Left with nothing to hang on to, no honor, no decency, shamed. I opened myself to you only to be skinned alive. The more vulnerable I became, the faster and more deft your knife. Knowing what was happening, still I stayed and let you carve more. That’s how much I loved you. That’s how much.
On an exceptionally hot evening early in August, I stood on the sidewalk in Beirut waiting for a taxi to take me home.
The Mediterranean sun was still blazing and I was about to faint.
I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of bronchitis and was just beginning to realize I should not have gone out.
Beirut is detestable in August.
Even the air is filthy.
I wanted to be home, in my bed.
It was 1976. The city was beginning to look damaged.
I could feel the ripening sun burn my skin, pale from having spent most of the summer indoors.
I was too skinny, my stepmother said.
Too sickly.
I wore a black linen dress.
The linen was perfect for the weather, but the color was not.
The dress was covered with tiny colorful flowers, a happy motif.
The black was a stark contrast to my skin.
The dress exposed my shoulders, which the sun attacked mercilessly.
Merciless. That evening was merciless.
I watched the cars drive by. No taxis in sight.
I felt a little dizzy, cursing my luck for having to be in Beirut instead of the mountains.
I was sixteen. I should have been invincible.
A taxi approached. It was full. Five passengers already in it.
I felt crushed.
The dress was French, bought from a catalogue. I loved it.
I looked at the sea behind me, oblivious to the play of colors.
I want to tell you my story, not to show how I was hurt, though I was. I simply want someone to note what happened, so that my love affair, four years of my life, is not relegated to some garbage heap. I don’t want you to think of me as a victim. I’m not. I take responsibility for what happened. I’m writing this to get it over with, to finally get completion for that part of my life. I want to tell you before I forget, because he has already forgotten. If there’s anything that’s killing me right now, it’s that he has forgotten. He has forgotten our conversations. He has forgotten what my room looks like. Three years we spent in that room, two nights a week, from seven till midnight, and he can’t remember. He never spent the night, by the way. He always went to sleep in his own bed, at his own house, in some other location in the city. After two years of silence, I was the one who initiated the contact, not him. I’m the one who’s open to patching things up. I haven’t been able
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