Friday 3/9/2010
Yasser squeezed Samar's hand as they walked out of Flavorz. He felt his heart dropping deeper into the pit of his stomach, nauseating him. He was anxious, nervous, ecstatic and terrified. As they walked, swinging hands, toward the main road, he had to let go a couple of times to discreetly wipe his palm on his jeans. Samar noticed though and giggled at him. "Shebak*?," she asked him. He blushed
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In retrospect, Samar knew that she had overreacted with Yasser. She was fighting herself on the inside. Her conscience was telling her that she needed to start letting things go and just enjoy the budding relationship they had. But her pride insisted that he did owe her an apology - he had not been completely honest with her. Yet her heart wanted to leap out of her chest, slap her
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He heard her giggle above where he was sitting. He pictured her smiling, the way her eyes squinted, forming petite crescent moons that glistened when she held in her laugh. He could hear her and Tamer speaking in hushed tones. His heart was pumping rapidly, the beating echoing in his ears. Yasser wasn't sure if he loved her or if he was in love with her. But there was something
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He was born in the Old City, in the house that his grandfather was born in. He had a brother three years his senior, Ahmed, and a sister, Nisreen, that was three years younger. They grew up in a modest household, with both parents working. Their mother was a high-school English literature teacher. Their father, Abu Ahmed, carried on the family trade, he was a gold/silversmith. In fact, the
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"Ya Allah, lesh hek?" (Oh God, why this?) Samar sunk into a plush armchair on the second floor of Flavors and rocked her head in her hands, berating herself for reacting the way she did. "Come on Samar, pull yourself together - why so nervous?" Well the answer was quite simple. Samar hadn't allowed herself to feel so jittery in a while. Whenever she was in his presence, something ridiculous
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A fictional story about a young Arab-American woman on vacation in Damascus.