Remembering Aseel

Sure! We were invited to Uncle Abóòd’s parties! Remember? The youngest sat at the table farthest from the wall, so waiters knew we weren’t allowed any arak. Still, we boys sipped the last drops from abandoned glasses while Uncles Yaman, Rifal, and Tarek shimmied to the beat of tabans and swayed to the gently plucked strings of a rebab.

Jeez, don’t you remember that although the air swam with the aroma of freekeh chicken, tabbouleh, and manoushi bread, those of us that weren’t too drunk could smell the jasmine in Aseel’s hair?

No! You’re not actually asking, “Who was Aseel?” Really? Come on. Aseel broke every man’s heart. Every boy’s heart! Remember? We vied for her hugs, prayed for her kisses, longed for her stories.

Ah, now you recall. Yes, Aseel’s stories centered around women’s freedom and o.k., erotic sex. I’ll give you that.

What? Seen her? No. She disappeared long ago.

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The King’s Daughter

Today Pegman took us to Versailles. What a beautifully opulent choice.

Twelve-year-old Giselle sits on the floor, skirts tucked neatly between her knees, silently thinking, dreaming, really.

Tonight this hall will be filled with flirtation and wine. Men and women alike will display themselves in dresses or jackets and pants tailored in pink, gold or baby-blue silk. Their faces and wigs powdered, eyebrows darkened with charcoal and cheeks stained cinnabar-red they will slip handkerchiefs from lacey sleeves while keeping feathered fans ready to cover smiling lips as their wide-open eyes beg for more. More wine, more food, more trysts upstairs or down, no one cares. All they desire is more, more and more.

Who pays for it all? Why the king himself. For he relishes everything and always expects more.
But who really pays?  People like our Giselle conceived on such a night. She rises, picks up her mop, looks down the long hall and begins her never-ending task.

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Deceit

Once again, Wednesday has rolled around. With some bits of fussing and fact checking, I have come up with a 102 word story for FF.

The tinkle of glasses. Laughter. Music. Charleston – her favorite.
And candlelight everywhere.
A splash in the pool.
Daisy checks her plum lipstick once, twice, again. Perfect.
Hair? More than perfect.
Still – she slides her hands over the exaggerated blonde finger waves.
Just to make sure.
A rap on the door. “Coming, baby?” It’s Tom.
Beads rustling like wind in bamboo, she turns around, looks at her
exquisite rump beneath the rose colored dress.
The V-cut in the back is almost too low. Almost.
She opens the door. Ignores her husband.
Glides across the seat of the yellow car.
Bright with nickel.

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