Equinox ★ jimmy page imagines

one

The air is hot and damp in the summer, a wet breeze from the Mediterranean turning the markets humid. Still, I wear long skirts and head scarves everywhere in the city. I like to be invisible, moving through throngs of people to taste sweet fruits and contemplate silver jewelry.

My sandals get wet as I take a side street, stepping into an overflow of freshly-dumped ice water. There is a fish market nearby and the salty scent makes me hold my nose and rush through, feeling chilled and exposed. I look up towards the skyline to find the hostel, to reassure I haven't gotten lost. It's only a short walk away. I lift up my skirts and move on.

Rounding the corner, I find you leaning into a stall, trying your best to speak with the vendor. Your Arabic is harsh and broken and you hold a lamp in the air as you try to mime your haggling. You're dressed better for the weather than I am: a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans. Your long, dark hair must be a shock to the traditionalists. I haven't managed to catch full sight of your face, yet.

"Excuse me," I try. Both the frustrated vendor and you look at me. "Do you need help, sir?"

"You speak Arabic?" Your accent is light and melodic, a match to your rounded, boyish features. My skin prickles.

I nod and start up a conversation with the vendor. "He wants to know how much you're willing to pay," I tell you.

"Tell him fifteen dirhams."

I translate for the vendor who shakes his head and crosses his arms. I frown at you, "He said twenty at least."

You nod and reach into your wallet, pulling out the banknote. Your face is flushed as you hand him the money. I wave goodbye to the vendor who lets you on your way with the lamp.

"It's very pretty," I comment, reaching out to touch the brushed bronze.

"Yes . . . thanks for your help," you tell me. "I'm Jimmy."

I give you my name and look you over again. Your familiarity strikes me suddenly. A small gasp enters my lungs, but I smile it off and pretend I don't know you.

"I tried to speak French to him, but he wouldn't hear it," you laugh.

"Some older people refuse it. They're reminded of the occupation." I notice your quizzical expression. "I've just come from my history class," I explain.

"Is that what you're studying?" You start to walk slowly, guiding us back to the main street. You're taking me the wrong way, but I want to draw this out.

I nod, "I'm here for the semester, only I'd love to stay forever, but they won't let me."

"I feel the same way. I have to go back to the studio at the end of the week. More writing and recording."

"Music?" I decide to play along.

You hum in approval, but don't mention more. Your fingers are long and wrapped around the base of the lamp as you hold it tight to your chest. You walk lovely, with a long, gliding stride like an elegant emissary. "I'm going to stop by for a drink. Do you want to join me?"

"I'd love to." You take us further into the city, where people gather during the after-work rush and fill the streets. I hold on to your shirt sleeve so as not to lose you. Finally, you take a turn into a nearly-hidden spot beside a pharmacy. The inside is calm and low-lit. Men in the corner smoke from a hookah and a bartender serves a coffee to a woman sitting with her lover.

I'm surprised to hear you order for us in a fragile French. I don't ask what you've gotten me and you don't tell me. The bartender sets two glasses in front of us, bottomed with mint leaves, and a gorgeous silver teapot between us.

"It's tea," you tell me, in an attempt to get me to try it.

And I do, taking a full, long sip. It's potent and sweet. "Delicious," I tell you and send a smile of compliment to the bartender.

"One of my favorites. We've been drinking it constantly."

"Oh? We?"

You shake your head and give a light smile. "My friend and I. We're on vacation after our tour."

"He's in your band?"

"The singer." You take a sip and run your finger along the pattern lining the glass. I can see your slight profile better this way and how your hair shines in the candlelight.

After a moment of silence, the woman and her lover leave, and we are alone at the bar. You're waiting for me to finish my tea.

"Jimmy?"

You raise your brows. You're sucking on the mint leaves, holding the stem between your fingers. I get a wiggling feeling in my stomach.

"Are you staying near here?"

"At La Mamounia." The limp leaves sit abandoned and drying on your glass-edge.

I open my mouth, "Oh, wow, I've heard it's beautiful."

"You could see for yourself if you wanted to."

Your gaze is cool as you watch me. You have dark eyes. Not brown, but a color near it. I can't tell in the darkness. I'm on fire.

"You'd want me to visit?"

"However long you'd want. I like learning about you."

A slow warmth is unraveling inside of me. "I like learning about you, too."

"Come with me, then. It's down a little ways." You pay the bartender and turn expectantly to me. But I'm already holding myself out for you: a menagerie of thoughts and desires.

You take my arm and lead me back into the market, where the people still buy and sell and the day is still sweltering. I follow you, the sun, and your serene scent of sweat and sandalwood.