Love Letter to a Succubus

Get Out of the Way!

Amir did not want to do taxes today, or any other day for that matter, but at this point it beat staying at home.

"Go back to that disgusting hovel!" he heard his mother yelling downstairs. "And they have the nerve to look down on us. When's the last time she cleaned that pigsty?"

Amir dropped his feet onto the cold tile floor, and his head into his hands. Allah help us.

His room was bright enough this early in the morning, in spite of the fact that it faced the building next to theirs, in the sunbaked Mar Vista neighborhood. His furniture was austere and unexpressive. All second hand and hand-me-downs from family and friends, in the tight-knit Arab community of Los Angeles.

"When's the last time she cleaned that pigsty, or even cooked for you?" His mother's voice broke into his quiet space once more.

Groaning, he got up and dressed with as much enthusiasm as a boy getting his teeth pulled. Polo shirt, cargo shorts, and adidas sneakers. He washed quickly, grabbed his laptop bag and went down the stairs, ready to face the wrath of an angry bull. He would have gone straight for the main doorway but the staircase descended into the kitchen first.

"Amir!" His mother swung her head in his direction as soon as he rounded the door of the kitchen. "Behold your future!" She waved a laddle at Hakeem, his uncle, abandoning the stir fry on its own in favor of her favorite past time—haranguing people.

Amir faced his uncle cowered at the kitchen table like a contrite and defenseless child, though he was a grown man in his forties. His thick black beard hid most of his wrinkles, and his bald pate seemed on purpose. That along with his modern t-shirt and checkered scarf made him look like a new age sheikh. It certainly didn't curry him any favors with his sister.

"Ramallah," Hakeem pleaded. "I've already agreed that you're right in every way—"

"You want to be free and live your lives on your own terms." Ramallah huffed, punishing Hakeem some more by pilling an underserved plate of food.

Amir tried to disappear behind the behind the fridge, which was jutting out a bit due to the awkward layout. He shouldn't have started with 'already agreed'—he thought to himself. You start with 'you're right in every way.' No qualifiers. Otherwise, you'll just set her off again.

"Who's going to cook for you and take you in when these white girls throw you out! Look at this mess," Ramallah badgered on.

Amir headed for the coffee pot sitting on the kitchen counter before the attack spilled onto his own affairs. That's when he noticed his cousin Fadir, also cowering at the kitchen table—with slumped soft shoulders, a retracted square face, like one of those giant tortoises, and soulful eyes. He always had soulful eyes.

"Oh, hey! I didn't even see you sitting there," Amir said.

"I just got here a minute ago." Fadir barely nodded his head, making as little movement as possible. Probably hoping he could just disappear into the walls if he sat still enough. "We should head out, no?" his cousin attempted to stand.

"You sit down and finish your coffee!" Ramallah decreed, freezing both of them in place. "I will not have you take another one of my mugs into that filthy car. Talk about pigsty."

Amir and Fadir exchanged one look, understanding dawning on them that the remark was directed only at Amir—frequent offender of crusty car mugs.

"Ok, yamma, I'm sitting." Amir raised one hand in defense, the other setting the mug down next to Fadir, and his lap top bag on the back of the chair.

Now that the men were all seated in their rightful place, at the kitchen table, Ramallah resumed her tirade. "Out here playing the famous actor instead of doing an actual job!"