I like my flowers arranged in a peculiar color-coded way that only the flower lady and I appreciate. They're pastel red and pastel orange, barely pink and hardly yellow, yet somehow they blend perfectly, brightening the room without a single too-cheerful color or a too-perfect shape. They simply work.
I like my coffee strong with a lingering aftertaste—cardamom on chilled mornings, cinnamon on cold, lonely afternoons.I like my house bathed in sunlight, its reflections dancing off countless mirrors of different shapes and qualities, so that when one flatters me, the other tells me the truth.
I like my lovers calm and confident, so they don't inadvertently disturb my calm or hinder the time I need to silently build my confidence, without their knowledge or assistance.I like my lipstick deep, my lashes dark, and my skin untouched, so the contrast between my velvet lips and naturally bold lashes keeps the admirer intrigued and the listener even more so.
I like my books smelly and dusty, so that when I accidentally spill coffee on them, they simply absorb it, just as they've absorbed the years in their previous owner's hands.I like my partners in bed strong and silent, so they can claim their pleasure without disturbing mine. I ask very little of them and give the most, for that's how I define pleasure.
I like my music profound, so that those who don't understand it simply drift away, never entering my life only to disregard my music later.I like my recipes unwritten, so I can improvise, adjust, express, and impress.
I like my mornings quiet and caffeinated, with headphones on and no interaction, so that if the night was rough, the coffee and music can work in tandem, transporting me to the creative, effortlessly productive places in my mind, of art and eros.
I like my sunny days scorching and my rainy days tempestuous, so my mood is dictated by the skies, sparing me the confusion of self-detection. So I can wear the red dress or the black coat, as if nothing in between exists in my wardrobe.
I like my texts layered, intermittently double-spaced, and filled with hints. Layered so that the superficial souls despise them, double-spaced for the aesthetic that borrows from both poetry and literature, and full of hints so that if we ever stop talking, you'll still know me and witness my growth.
I like my life simple, or nonexistent. But since I'm here, I suppose simple is the only choice.I desire not to exist, but if I must, I want to be here—where the flowers are rebellious, and my thoughts even more so. Where the lovers give their all, and I give even more. Where the coffee smells strong and the books even stronger, where the mornings are quiet and the evenings quieter, where I can listen to Cheikh Imam and Umm Kulthum on the same day, without anyone understanding the contradiction of it. Where I can live and die quietly, anonymously, with no one to honor and no one to shame. Where I can live and hope, and if I choose to quit, I can turn the page, sip the last drop, smile at the last stranger, and prepare one final meal to be remembered by, then fade away as I always do—forever unknown.
