scent.
The only time the boy and the girl are ever apart is when one or the other has a client. What would happen if we were allowed to grow up right? Without being separated in the crèche, without being taught where our skin ended and someone else’s skin began. It would have been nice to find out.
It’s too late for me, though. I’m aware of myself most of the time. I even enjoy being together in a harni pile as myself. Whenever there is “I” there is “other” and when they separated my siblings and me, I became “I” and lost all the rest to “other.”
I like sex. I have one client who comes and does oral sex to me while I do oral sex to him, lying head to genitals on the bed. I like the feeling and I like coming. Like hashish and wine, in the moment of coming there is utter forgetfulness of self. But that’s as close as humans ever seem to come to the merging of “I” and “other” -the momentary forgetfulness of separation, which isn’t the same.
That’s why humans are only happy when they are doing, because when they’re absorbed in something they forget the awful loneliness of being themselves.
* * *
“I brought you something,” I tell Hariba in the morning. “Tabi said it would help you feel better.”
“Who is Tabi?” she asks, sleepy.
“The owner’s wife where I work,” I say.
“Medicine,” she says, sounded defeated.
“To help you not feel sick.”
“If I feel sick, how can I take this medicine so I don’t feel sick?” she says, but smiles a tired smile, trying not to be peevish.
“Ah,” I say, “there’s the secret. You smoke it.”
She sits up and pushes her heavy hair back from her face. “What is it?”
“Hashish,” I say, and push back a strand of hair that falls back across her forehead.
“Akhmim!” she says. “Hashish? Old men sit at hashish bars and smoke it, it’s not a medicine!”
“Tabi said it would help,” I say, coaxing and cajoling. With Hariba sick, it’s hard to get moments of peace. I’m always anxious, trying to please, trying to satisfy.
“I…can’t,” she says. But I know I can get her to do it. She doesn’t have the energy to resist. I sit on the bed next to her and she watches with dull eyes while I unpeel the foil from around the hashish. It’s dark, resinous stuff. I put some in the bowl of the pipe and light a match, and, as I’ve seen men do, lay the lighted match across the bowl and carefully hand her the pipe.
She takes a draw and coughs out smoke. “It’s harsh, “ she says, “and the smoke is hot .”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Try again.”
She manages to hold it a moment before coughing, and then she hands me the pipe, shaking her head. “I can’t, Akhmim, I can’t.”
She lies back. Her eyes are watering and I wipe them with the edge of the sheet. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’ll get better.” Her plain square face is very dear to me. Sometimes it amazes me that we aren’t the same thing, that she’s human. Her otherness hits me most at moments like this when I’m understanding her well and I suddenly wonder how much of that understanding is just my assumptions of sameness, and then I wonder what she’s really thinking and feeling. Her face becomes familiar and strange. She’s really a stranger in my life, this human, who has turned everything upside-down.
She doesn’t know I’m looking at the animal she is, human animal. I stroke her hand as a kind of apology. I live with her every day, in this place of animals. In a bit the strangeness will pass and she’ll be just Hariba to me again.
“Try some more,” I say.
“Akhmim,” she protests weakly, “I can’t.”
But she does. After a bit, I can see that her pupils are big and dark. “I feel strange,” she says.
“It’s hashish.”
“I know,” she says, and pauses as if she were going to say something, but doesn’t say anything.
“Have some rice.”
“I wish we had something sweet,” she says.
“How
The only time the boy and the girl are ever apart is when one or the other has a client. What would happen if we were allowed to grow up right? Without being separated in the crèche, without being taught where our skin ended and someone else’s skin began. It would have been nice to find out.
It’s too late for me, though. I’m aware of myself most of the time. I even enjoy being together in a harni pile as myself. Whenever there is “I” there is “other” and when they separated my siblings and me, I became “I” and lost all the rest to “other.”
I like sex. I have one client who comes and does oral sex to me while I do oral sex to him, lying head to genitals on the bed. I like the feeling and I like coming. Like hashish and wine, in the moment of coming there is utter forgetfulness of self. But that’s as close as humans ever seem to come to the merging of “I” and “other” -the momentary forgetfulness of separation, which isn’t the same.
That’s why humans are only happy when they are doing, because when they’re absorbed in something they forget the awful loneliness of being themselves.
* * *
“I brought you something,” I tell Hariba in the morning. “Tabi said it would help you feel better.”
“Who is Tabi?” she asks, sleepy.
“The owner’s wife where I work,” I say.
“Medicine,” she says, sounded defeated.
“To help you not feel sick.”
“If I feel sick, how can I take this medicine so I don’t feel sick?” she says, but smiles a tired smile, trying not to be peevish.
“Ah,” I say, “there’s the secret. You smoke it.”
She sits up and pushes her heavy hair back from her face. “What is it?”
“Hashish,” I say, and push back a strand of hair that falls back across her forehead.
“Akhmim!” she says. “Hashish? Old men sit at hashish bars and smoke it, it’s not a medicine!”
“Tabi said it would help,” I say, coaxing and cajoling. With Hariba sick, it’s hard to get moments of peace. I’m always anxious, trying to please, trying to satisfy.
“I…can’t,” she says. But I know I can get her to do it. She doesn’t have the energy to resist. I sit on the bed next to her and she watches with dull eyes while I unpeel the foil from around the hashish. It’s dark, resinous stuff. I put some in the bowl of the pipe and light a match, and, as I’ve seen men do, lay the lighted match across the bowl and carefully hand her the pipe.
She takes a draw and coughs out smoke. “It’s harsh, “ she says, “and the smoke is hot .”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Try again.”
She manages to hold it a moment before coughing, and then she hands me the pipe, shaking her head. “I can’t, Akhmim, I can’t.”
She lies back. Her eyes are watering and I wipe them with the edge of the sheet. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’ll get better.” Her plain square face is very dear to me. Sometimes it amazes me that we aren’t the same thing, that she’s human. Her otherness hits me most at moments like this when I’m understanding her well and I suddenly wonder how much of that understanding is just my assumptions of sameness, and then I wonder what she’s really thinking and feeling. Her face becomes familiar and strange. She’s really a stranger in my life, this human, who has turned everything upside-down.
She doesn’t know I’m looking at the animal she is, human animal. I stroke her hand as a kind of apology. I live with her every day, in this place of animals. In a bit the strangeness will pass and she’ll be just Hariba to me again.
“Try some more,” I say.
“Akhmim,” she protests weakly, “I can’t.”
But she does. After a bit, I can see that her pupils are big and dark. “I feel strange,” she says.
“It’s hashish.”
“I know,” she says, and pauses as if she were going to say something, but doesn’t say anything.
“Have some rice.”
“I wish we had something sweet,” she says.
“How
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