Water Line
I met him in Abu Dhabi.
He is South African; I even forgot his name.
I guess I have a thing for artists.
He was an artist.
Sitting crossed legs across each other;
we held hands in a hotel room.
Kissing was never on our minds; maybe it was on his.
That’s what we all assume about boys, no?
He was too shy — it was not on his mind.
The carpet was red; how does one sleep in a hotel room with red carpet?
The room seemed very big, but we sat very low.
This hallway expanded all the way to the other side of the building; it was all red.
I had my bangs hanging in front of my left eye.
I only saw him halfway through.
He was wearing a black suit; he looked very handsome.
His golden hair was the opposite of my black hair.
Is gold the opposite of black? I guess not.
He has soft hands and nice trimmed nails.
He was a very quiet boy.
I saw him in between conferences.
He barely said, ‘Hi’ to me.
Fatma told me I should put on eyeliners for the dinner party.
She took out her pen and opened my eyes;
“It is better to put the eyeliner on the waterline.” she explained with her french accent.
A lot of people spoke French here and nobody had ever opened my eyes except Fatma.
At the dinner party, he and I sat together.
There was a buffet with local food.
It was lavish and oily.
He left the table to get some food.
I wonder what we should talk about when he comes back; maybe about his British accent.
We ran into the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my young life.
We met at the conference, and she represented Uruguay, while I represented Argentina. Her soft curly hair spoke French.
She was also a shy girl but very sexy, indeed.
She often bit on her blue BIC pen; I wonder why.
I don’t remember when we stood up from and left the bloody red carpet.
I don’t remember saying goodbye to him either.
He would write letters to me; we kept in touch.
I saw him once in a while on Skype; he has three sisters.
They have his soft golden hair, opposite from my black.
They often interrupt our calls; it was okay because we were barely talking anyway.
My mother screamed my name.
A package had come for me from South Africa.
She knew I met a boy in Abu Dhabi from South Africa.
It was after school; I had a long day and I smelled like the sun but a bit damp.
I opened the package, and it was a painting; and it was the wrong way around.
I flipped it to the right side and saw a zombie version of my profile picture.
He made me a portrait; how sweet.
It must have taken him forever to paint me in this beautiful shade of green and grays. What a beautiful portrait I must say.
I adored him.
Now I remember his name — his name is Baxter.