Wedding

I left without saying goodbye to him, my escape quicker and quieter than I’d imagined. And now, as I walk down my street, everything has taken on a peculiar quality: the road narrower than I thought, the stench of trash rising and mingling with a trace of ginger, the lights at the corner pale like a colorless odor, the way home longer than I remember. My mind is spinning, and I wonder if it’s the suit and tie—if that’s the reason everything seems different tonight, if it has to do with the black leather shoes and the way they fall more heavily on the road than my usual sneakers. My breath catches in my chest and I feel like something is about to happen, like I’m on the brink of something momentous—a car accident, sudden death. But the last thing I would’ve imagined is to turn and to see him standing there, smiling that beautiful smile of his that has not changed one bit, even as everything else has. He’s walking behind me and seems, like me, to be discovering the street anew, holding a glass of tea in his hand and downing half of it in one long gulp, even though it’s steaming hot—and the sight of him is shattering.

How is it possible that he’s here, when I’ve just left him there, at his wedding? A wild, gorgeous wedding in a huge garden, green with bottles of cold Stella beer and heaving with people wearing genuine smiles. The bride was beautiful as always and I cheered with joy when they embraced. He danced to the simsimiyya and from time to time we took group pictures and we were all blown away by his elation. And now, how is it possible that he’s here? That he’s left his wedding and is walking down my street with a glass of tea in his hand? When did he change out of that tuxedo and into his blue jeans and white shirt? And why isn’t he calling out to me? Is he just making sure I get home safe? He used to do that all the time, after all our late nights hanging out on the Nile Corniche in Manial. By dawn I was usually falling over myself and he would help me home; we would sing our way through the snoozing streets, and he’d take me up to my bed until I fell asleep, then leave . . .

My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I pick up the pace and he walks faster too, keeping the same distance between us. Does he not love her? She’s the kind of girl you can’t help but love, even if you try hard not to. He spent the last two years preparing for the marriage, canceling many of our late nights together and the trip we took to Alexandria every summer—and now, would he leave his wedding to follow me home with a glass of tea in his hand? The idea of stopping to talk to him is unthinkable, and I begin to grow afraid of his smile. I take two steps back, and so does he; I walk on, suddenly terrified at the prospect of going home alone. I duck into a coffee shop close to my building, relieved to find people sitting there. I choose a seat deep inside, keeping my eye on the entrance—expecting him to come in, but he doesn’t. A waiter comes by to set a glass of tea down in front of me. I reach for it, and my heart lurches when I see that it’s half-empty. I run out of the coffee shop, my feet no longer touching the ground, disappearing inside my body like the wheels of a plane after takeoff. Everyone is watching—and all the faces are his—nothing lasts forever—weddings are just joyful funerals . . .

I find myself back at the garden, the wedding still in full swing. I run over to him, grab his hand, and pull him away. He stumbles; everyone turns to look. I pull at him again, and in the parking lot I finally confess: that afternoon I had a dream in which I was gleefully murdering his bride.

Then I run away. And when I get to my street, I can’t find my way home, but I find him waiting there, at the coffee shop, a glass of tea in his hand, filled to the brim; and he takes me up to my bed until I fall asleep, then leaves.