Tag Archives: Issue 7

9 January, 2018

Charles Leipart

Charles Leipart’s work has appeared in the Bayou Magazine, the Jabberwock Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Panolpy Literary Zine, and the Eastern Iowa Review. He also writes for the theatre; Cream Cakes in Munich, 1st Prize Award 2016 Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. Charles is a graduate of Northwestern University, a former fellow of the Edward Albee Foundation, and a member of the Dramatists Guild. He lives and writes in New York City. www.charlesleipart.com

9 January, 2018

PUT ME TO SLEEP

Chef slams the skillet down and barks something

about being low on eggs. Four tickets in my apron

means he’ll need another carton. Not that I’ll fetch

it for him. I stay on my side of the kitchen.

One time, a nurse said Saddam Hussein saved

bread crusts for the birds. In jail, without

the distracting temptation of dictatorship,

he watered dusty plants, another’s task.

I dated an ex-con. On the anniversary

of his mother’s death, I saw him walking

out of town to her grave. She was buried one

state over. Months later, he raped me.

The Dalai Lama said, Aggression is an intimate

part of ourselves. Once, he said, It’s well-known

that good feelings only cause boredom,

and gently put you to sleep.

Like people don’t know the price of fruit, chef says,

when I hand him a ticket for a yogurt parfait. 

I scoop raspberries out of the plastic tub. 

Jesus Christ, he says, and slaps my hand away.

You have to take the ones from the top first,

or the others below bruise beneath their weight.

His calloused fingers cradle each berry—

his touch gentle as if they’re newborns asleep.

9 January, 2018

Lauren Davis

is a poet living on the Olympic Peninsula in a Victorian seaport community. She holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, and her work can be found in publications such as Prairie Schooner, Spillway, and Split Lip Press. She has received a residency at Hypatia-in-the-Woods. She also teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe in Port Townsend, WA, and works as an editor at The Tishman Review.

9 January, 2018

THE ADULTS

On Saturday morning, I sit in bed and scroll through my phone and try to remember when, exactly, weekends became something to be endured. I text Madeline to ask if she and her girlfriend, Lauren, are going to Alice’s birthday party. Madeline is the one friend I have who does not require a week’s notice to make plans. The rest are married, with an assortment of children. 

I toss the phone on the bed and consider my options. I could trim my beard. I could scramble eggs. I could research memory foam pillows to replace the sad sack pillow I currently own. Instead, I pick up my phone and go to my ex-wife’s Facebook page. My ex-wife and I are no longer friends on Facebook—all I can see is her profile picture, which has not changed in several months. In the picture, she sits in an Adirondack chair, grinning, wearing a dress I don’t recognize. The dress is blue and looks a lot like a nightgown. I look at the picture and wonder, as I always do, when my ex-wife started to wear dresses that look like nightgowns. I wonder if her life now, six months after our divorce, more closely resembles the one she wanted. 

My phone buzzes. 

Lauren’s sick, Madeline says. But I’ll go if you go.

*

At Alice’s birthday party, Madeline pulls a beer from a cooler mixed with juice boxes and hands it to me. “I did the math, Sam,” she says. “By the time Alice is fifty, I’ll be dead.”

Alice is three. She is dressed as a hotdog, though it is not a costume party, and waving an orange popsicle. From the deck, we watch as she drops the popsicle on the lawn, picks it up, and sticks it in her mouth. “Where’s Nicholas?” I ask. Nicholas is Alice’s father. He, Madeline, and I shared a house on Calvert Street a decade ago, in our twenties. Madeline refers to them as the Ball Sack Years. 

“Hiding,” Madeline says.

“He said there would be other childless people. And he promised a moon bounce.” 

“Well,” Madeline says, “Nicholas a liar.”

Seven or eight children wander around the backyard like drunks, weaving through the sprinkler, crashing into stationary objects. A handful of parents gathers around the kiddie pool, casually vigilant. One of them is a red-haired woman in a gray shirt tucked into slim black shorts. She pulls a bottle of sunscreen from a bag and slathers it onto the arms of a small red-haired girl. “Should we go talk to them?” I ask.

The small red-haired girl lets out a long, piercing scream. 

“No,” Madeline says.

*

Nicholas appears with a store-bought vegetable tray and sets it on the table next to the cooler. “Good,” he says, “you found the alcohol.” He opens a beer. I met Nicholas at a party when we were twenty-six, after I overheard him tell a girl that he was deeply interested in ancient civilizations. I have come to learn that women find Nicholas appealing, regardless of what he is deeply interested in. 

The red-haired woman walks up to the side of the deck. “Is there another one of those?” 

Nicholas fishes a beer from the cooler, twists the cap off, and hands it to her. 

“Who’s that?” I ask, after she goes back to the kiddie pool. 

“Kate Holiday,” Nicholas says. “Her niece is in daycare with Alice.”

“That’s not her kid?” I ask.

“No,” Nicholas says. “Why?” 

“Sam likes redheads,” Madeline says. “Even though they make him miserable.”

I finish my beer and open another. “I’m not always miserable.” 

“Remember the time I came over,” she says, “and you were eating yogurt with a fork?”

“I was out of clean spoons.”

“You were unkempt.” Madeline raises her beer, in a toast. “Less so now.”

*

Alice climbs onto the deck. Her hotdog costume is a red tube with a yellow strip of felt down the center. She runs past her father and wraps her arms around Madeline’s legs. “I don’t get it,” Nicholas says. “Kids love you.” 

Madeline crouches to Alice’s height. “What do you have there?”

Alice holds up a plastic cow. “A dinosaur.” 

Nicholas shrugs. “She’s into dinosaurs.”

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?” Madeline says.

“T-Rex,” Alice says. “But his little arms make me sad.” 

“Honey,” Nicholas’s wife calls from the lawn. “Could you bring out the cake?”

Nicholas’s wife is wearing an off-white dress with a leather belt knotted at her waist; she gives the impression of someone who rode horses as a child. She has excellent posture and, the first time I met her, seemed either very shy or mildly disdainful. The second time I met her, she told a long, filthy joke about a priest and a prostitute and Darth Vader, and I started to understand her appeal. 

“The birthday cake?” Nicholas says.

“Yes, the birthday cake,” she says. “For our daughter’s birthday.”

“Where is it?” 

“It’s an ice cream cake. I’ll give you three guesses.” 

Nicholas takes a sip of beer. “Should I do the candles?”

Nicholas’s wife gives a big, dazzling smile. “How about you find a big box of matches,” she says, “and ask our three-year-old to light the candles?”

Madeline and I exchange the look we reserve for when other people’s relationships seem unenviable. Nicholas finishes the beer, tosses it into the recycling bin, and goes into the house. Alice sets the plastic cow on the deck and covers it with a paper napkin. “Be quiet,” she says. “The dinosaur is sleeping.”

*

Nicholas produces an ice cream cake without candles. We sing and eat the cake and the children run in literal circles around the backyard. Someone gives them water guns, and someone else wonders aloud if water guns promote gun culture. Madeline opens two beers and gives one to me. “If I drink too much and make a scene, maybe Nicholas will ask me to leave.” 

“Do you want to leave?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I want to complain.” 

We look at the adults on the lawn and play the game we sometimes play, where we try to guess the last time each of them had sex. “Your problem,” Madeline says, “is you think only good-looking people have sex.”

“Content-looking people,” I say. 

“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Sex has nothing to do with being content.” 

“Interesting,” I say. “You and Lauren seem content.” 

I had dinner at their place the week before last: Lauren roasted a chicken, and the three of us split 2.5 bottles of wine. We talked about how Madeline’s work nemesis talked incessantly about toxins, and how Lauren was much better at smoking pot than Madeline, and how I should find a woman on the Internet because that was the whole point of the Internet, and because I still had a full head of hair. At the end of the night, they walked me to the front door, and Lauren hooked a finger through the pocket of Madeline’s jeans in a way that made me realize, acutely, that I would be going home to an empty apartment.

Madeline picks at the label on her beer. 

“You’re not content?” I say. 

She shrugs. “It’s like a video game. I thought when I met Lauren I had won the game. But then it kept going.” Her phone chimes and she looks at the screen. “Sometimes it’s hard,” she says. “And sometimes it’s boring.” She puts the phone to her ear, opens the door to the house, and closes it behind her. 

*

I stand there, alone, and look at the yard. Nicholas sits on the lawn, arm extended, as Alice slides colorful plastic bracelets over his hand. Nicholas’s wife joins them, settling on the grass in spite of her off-white dress. She leans over and kisses Nicholas on the cheek. I watch them for about thirty seconds before I start to think about the phone in my pocket and how, if I wanted to, I could look at it. That’s when the red-haired woman climbs onto deck. Kate Holiday.

She smiles. “You look confused.” She opens the cooler, sifts through the contents.

“Oh,” I say. “I am sometimes.”

“All the beer’s gone.” She looks at me. Her cheeks are flushed.

“Do you want a juice box?” I say.

“Tempting,” she says. 

I hold out my beer. “Do you want mine?”

To my surprise, she steps forward, pulls the bottle from my hand, and takes a sip. It occurs to me, distantly, that my heart is pounding. I wonder if there is a medical term for when that happens. I wonder if there is a medical term specific to when it is induced by another person.

“Your beer’s warm,” she says. 

“Yup,” I say. 

She grins and sets the half-empty bottle on the railing. I pick it up and we stand there, leaning against the railing. There is a breeze in the air. The sun drops behind a passing cloud and reemerges. The color of the grass shifts from a dark green to a lighter one. 

Somewhere in the backyard a kid starts crying—the small red-haired girl. “Oh dear,” Kate says. I watch as she walks down the steps to the lawn. When she reaches the grass, I pull out my phone, tap on Facebook, and search for Kate Holiday. I find her profile, which is only semi-private, and scroll through her seventeen pictures. Kate next to a cardboard cutout of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Kate in sunglasses, holding a coconut drink in one hand, a champagne glass in the other. Kate swinging in a hammock, laughing, the right side of her face hidden behind a white paper fan. 

I look up and see her on the lawn, a plastic wand poised at her mouth, blowing soap bubbles. She tilts her head, watching the bubbles float above the kiddie pool, brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, and hands the wand to the small red-haired girl. It would be so easy, I think, to join her there. To ask for her phone number. 

I imagine sitting beside her at a low-lit bar, drinking a second glass of bourbon, sharing a tiny, seven-dollar dish of olives. I imagine her swiveling on the bar stool, rolling an olive between her fingers, popping it in her mouth. I imagine a series of dates: different bars, different drinks, a slow and steady reveal of our imperfections. 

I look back at my phone and tap on her list of friends. I pause. I draw the phone closer to my face. Kate Holiday has a friend who looks a lot like my ex-wife.

It is my ex-wife, I realize. She changed her profile picture. 

In the new picture, my ex-wife stands in front of a brick wall painted bright green. She wears a blue t-shirt she bought years ago, from a truck that sold t-shirts and live goldfish in tiny plastic bowls. Her smile is big, her hair unruly. Snaked around her waist is a man’s arm. It is impossible to tell who the arm belongs to, because he is cropped out of the picture. It could, conceivably, belong to no one of significance. It could belong to my ex-wife’s brother, even though he lives in Lansing, Michigan and has not spoken to her in three years.

The phone, suddenly, feels hot and slick in my hand. It occurs to me that my wife is not my wife anymore, for a variety of tangible and less tangible reasons. She will never be my wife again. It occurs to me that I am thirty-seven years old and drunk at a child’s birthday party. There is a neat, searing pain in my right temple. 

Madeline returns to the deck. “You look like you’re about to throw up,” she says.

I finish my beer. “I have a headache.” 

She reaches over and presses a finger to my forearm. The imprint turns pink. “You’re burning,” she says. 

*

The house is cool and dark, the curtains drawn, the central air humming. The kitchen counter is littered with juice boxes and plates smeared with melted ice cream, the dining room carpet strewn with towels and alphabet puzzle pieces. I follow Madeline into the bathroom and watch as she pulls different bottles from the medicine cabinet. “There’s no headache stuff.” She closes the cabinet and brushes past me. “I’ll check upstairs.” 

I go to the living room and sink into the couch. I look at my reflection in the television. I look like somebody’s sad, drunk uncle.

Alice walks into the room, holding an assortment of jumbled towels. Her hotdog costume is bedraggled, the strip of yellow felt trailing behind her. She approaches the couch, takes the beer bottle, sets it on the floor. “Lie down,” she says. I stretch across the couch. “No.” She points to the carpet.

“Down there?” I say. 

“On the floor,” Alice says, solemnly.

The carpet is plush. I lie on my back. “Close your eyes,” she says, and I close them. “You’re sleeping,” she says. She puts her hand on my forehead, and then covers my face with a damp towel. At first, I wonder why the towel is damp. At first, I make a list of all the liquids it might be damp with. But the cloth is cool, and it smells like laundry detergent, and it feels pleasant, like a spa treatment. Alice covers my chest with a towel. She covers my legs with a towel, my feet. “Goodnight,” she says. I listen to her pad away on the carpet, into the kitchen. I listen to the back door open and close. I listen to the sound of my breaths, in and out.  

9 January, 2018

Sarah Mollie Silberman

holds an MFA from George Mason University and lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared in Booth, CutBank, Nashville Review, Puerto del Sol, Yemassee, and elsewhere.

9 January, 2018

BLOODLINE

                For Izzy

The day that my insides

                became my outsides (the brown mess clotted 

under my freckled nose

lips curdled with curious disgust)

I stared at my older sister      your mother 

as she brushed her wet hair 

in the bathroom 

                One one-hundred, Two one-hundred

to the same rhythm as yesterday

like nothing had changed

I stood on the sepia tile and counted 

                Four one-hundred, Five one-hundred

My face was red-hit

like the insides that had recently 

                become outsides

I thought she would be able

to read what happened

in the crimson air over my head—She could read 

            so much else that happened

            in the air over my head 

                        like my insides were outside

I waited for her to see that I was a woman,

that now she should start teaching me

how to curl my hair and smell like summer 

              Six one-hundred, Seven one-hundred 

But she glared over with question marks for eyeballs 

                           Why are you staring at me

My mother      your grandmother       must have mouthed

                 what happened in my underwear 

because your mother           my sister

suddenly made me a ruby necklace of her arms

                     you poor thing, you poor thing

and I might be imagining it, but I think she cried 

                             insides pouring outside

              Eight one-hundred, Nine one-hundred

She drove me to the Pacific Ocean

like the salt and the waves could clean

                my blood stained outsides inside

As the waves went back and forth,

I began to count 

               Ten one-hundred, Eleven one-hundred

all the wounds and all the blood

I didn’t know about yet

9 January, 2018

Stephanie Johnson

is a Pushcart Prize nominated author, a finalist for the 2016 Claire Keyes poetry award, and winner of the 2017 Lumina Poetry Prize. She is also the Editor-in-Chief of The Passed Note. Her work has been published by Penny, Banshee and QU, among others. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina with her husband and their seven bookshelves. 

9 January, 2018

DOCTOR, DOCTOR

He was dissecting a cat when I arrived for the interview. The lab-coated doctor sat hunched over the splayed legs of an immobilized gray kitty. I looked away. This wasn’t what I had signed up for. He was supposed to be a neurologist, not a vet.

“You the gal they sent to take Mary’s place?” He spun his stool around to face me, the sharp instrument still in his hand. His words were broken by a slight accent. I glanced toward him, relieved to find that his long torso blocked all but the cat’s tail. 

“Yes, Mary, your secretary,” making clear that the typewriter was my tool, not the scalpel. Whatever would I do if he asked me to assist him? I was an English major, for goodness sake. “You need a typist while she’s on maternity leave, right?” 

The doctor tossed his lab gloves into a bin and shut the door between lab and lobby, leaving the dead cat and the smell of formaldehyde behind. A Swede with thinning gray hair, glasses, and a narrow face, he was tall in an awkward, gangly kind of way—like an adolescent boy whose trousers, no matter how new, always land inches above his ankle. His name was embroidered in red script above a pocket stuffed with pens. My eyes passed over his bulging Adam’s apple and landed on a grin. 

“She’s part of my research project.” The doctor nodded toward the closed door. 

I’d just finished my college freshman year and was working Saturday mornings as a receptionist at the EEG lab of the university’s medical complex. Filling in for the doctor’s secretary was a fulltime summer post with a much-needed salary increase. As far as I could tell, my older sister Sandy was the sole breadwinner in our family, and how much could a twenty-two-year-old secretary earn? 

Mother was enjoying the single life in Miami Beach where she’d gone to reclaim her runaway second husband. Any jobs Mom held during her four-year-and-counting stay barely covered her own living expenses. Our father had left a decade ago. His ten-dollar weekly child support checks disappeared on the stroke of our eighteenth birthdays without even a goodbye note… kind of like his earlier departure. My full scholarship covered tuition, but we’d turned down a student loan meant to cover the rest. Debt wasn’t something our family did. Luckily, I was able to live at home.

“I’ll show you around,” he beckoned, walking ahead in his size big shoes. I followed, wobbling in my two-inch heels. It was the mid-sixties and young women in the Midwest didn’t sport jeans or pants yet, but wore skirts, blouses, and even stockings if it wasn’t too hot. 

The quick tour revealed a reception area offering a desk, file cabinets, and one cracked leather armless chair for the random visitor. Patients were seen at the medical school’s clinic. A worn, brown carpet led into a tiny office that boasted a narrow window offering an encapsulated view of the high-rise buildings that made up the venerable medical complex. The desk was populated with stacks of paper, journals, and books. A credenza stood similarly cluttered, but for a framed photograph peeking out from the piles as though vying for the doctor’s attention. It showed a younger man, one arm circling the shoulders of a curly-haired woman, and the other holding a gap-toothed little boy. 

“My wife and son. He’s 14 now,” he offered, pausing to acknowledge his family. “They’re in Stockholm all summer.” Looking back at me, he waved his hands around the space. “And this is where I do all my great thinking and writing. Your job is to keep me organized and type up my notes.” Would he be joining them? This was to be a summer-long position. And I needed to get all those paid weeks in. A muffled siren from outside signaled the arrival of an ambulance.

“When can you start?”

* * *

I soon settled into a routine. Each morning I’d leave the apartment my sister and I shared and walked the few blocks to the Delmar bus, my brown-bag lunch in hand. A written assignment in the doctor’s scrawl would welcome me to my desk. I’d start pecking away on the IBM Selectric, stopping to take an occasional phone call. During my lunch hour, I’d roam the gentrified neighborhood shops, landing at the local Left Bank bookstore—browsing but not buying. Libraries were my go-to place for books.

I missed the camaraderie of the EEG lab: Laughing with the young female technicians, or greeting apprehensive patients who were about to have their scalps treated like pin cushions to map brain activity for migraines, epilepsy, or worse. Here it was just the doctor and I. He’d be in the clinic most mornings and in the afternoons, he holed up behind closed doors reading. As I had been forewarned, the doctor was not much of a conversationalist. “Hello,” “goodbye,” or explanations of assignments were his offerings. So, I was surprised when I returned from a lunch stroll to be welcomed by his loud greeting and a vase of yellow roses. 

“Your boyfriend dropped those off,” he announced from his desk chair as I entered, as if he had been waiting for me to return. Wow. Billy had never given me flowers. We’d met early during my freshman fall semester. With oval brown eyes, dark hair, and olive skin, he was a Jewish Omar Sharif who came equipped with still-married-to-each-other parents, a three-bedroom ranch house, and membership at the local synagogue. By that summer we’d begun our journey skipping down the yellow brick road to happily ever after. We’d made it past holding hands to making out in the vinyl-clad front seat of his car. And now he’d sent me flowers.

“Uh, I didn’t bring you flowers, Renee,” Billy declared on the phone when I called to thank him that evening. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t have liked to. Why would that guy tell you that?” 

That guy with the M.D., PhD? 

“Must be his weird sense of humor,” I puzzled. What was I to do? Scold the doctor? Laugh with him at his prank? Relax and enjoy the flowers? Should I feel flattered? Other than high school dance corsages that always pricked when pinned on, no one had ever given me flowers. Much less a dozen roses. I said nothing. Over the next few days I‘d watch the buds stretch and bloom, petals open wide to embrace a brief life, their perfume filling the office. Later when hardened, curled leaves dropped onto the patient notes I was typing, I tossed the flowers, washed the vase, and placed it on top of the file drawer. An arrangement of pink roses arrived the next week and I was greeted with the same story. Should I ask Billy again? Maybe he actually had sent these, not wanting to be outdone by the doctor? 

“No Renee, I did not get you flowers this time either. I’m sorry. I love you, but I don’t have money for roses right now. I’ll pick you some from my mom’s garden if you want. You sure you want to work for this guy? What’s with him?” 

“Oh, he’s harmless. Just having fun. Likes to joke. The work’s easy; the pay is good. Should cover all my textbooks and supplies.”  

I didn’t add that I loved getting roses and enjoyed the attention. After the second dozen roses had died, I found a collection of Winnie the Pooh books on my desk, still wrapped in their original cellophane. The day before I’d completely missed the doctor’s reference to Eeyore when describing a patient. 

“What, you don’t know Pooh and Tigger and Christopher Robin?” This gift the doctor acknowledged. I read the entire four-volume collection of charming stories that night. Years later I would read them to my young daughters.

The surprises continued. One morning I walked out of my apartment building and the doctor was out front in his ‘60s Chevy sedan, waiting to drive me to work. He lived in a nearby suburb where many professionals owned homes because of the good public schools. My sister and I were in the apartments clustered on the fringes—many populated by medical students on a budget. 

“I got a late start, so I decided to save you some bus money,” he explained, leaning over to open the passenger door. Had he gotten my address from my job application? No matter. Maybe I wouldn’t mention the ride to Billy. He might not have understood how nice it was to be driven somewhere without having to ask. Our family had never owned a car, unless you counted the few months we lived with our stepfather before he too walked out. Sandy had just started saving for a Chevy Nova. 

Growing up, destinations had been limited to those on bus, or streetcar lines, or within walking distance. My attendance at social events or club meetings was dependent upon begging a ride from friends, knowing I couldn’t reciprocate. My surprise at seeing the doctor’s car, despite its mud-splattered tires and scratchy seat covers, turned into delight, not skepticism. I was reminded of those long-ago Sunday afternoons when my father pulled up to the curb in his ‘50s lime green Plymouth, with the rounded roof, for one of his twice monthly custodial visits. I’d dash out and jump into the front seat eager for the fun adventure to begin. Until the day he stopped coming.

“Thanks!” I slid in. The doctor didn’t say much on the short trip, but it didn’t matter. The car ride was much better than the crowded bus where I’d stand, hanging onto an overhead strap, bouncing off other passengers at every jolt. 

My longest conversation with him occurred when he invited me to lunch midway into the summer. 

“Do you like Miss Hulling’s Café?” he asked as he popped out of his office, another unanticipated gesture. His morning pick-up hadn’t recurred, though I’d still paused and looked. 

“Sure!” I could easily abandon the American cheese sandwich and banana I’d packed that morning. We walked the few blocks; I had to hustle to keep up with the long strides of this man who was at least a foot taller than I. Grabbing our trays—mine piled with roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a chunk of corn bread; his with bratwurst and sauerkraut—we sat down at one of the Formica tables. The red plastic chair squeaked as I pulled it close. 

“So, is Billy a good boyfriend?” 

Luckily the potatoes slid down my throat, silencing my gasp.

“Um, yeah.” Not really sure if we shared the same definition of good boyfriend. “Yes!” deciding to sound more enthused as I buttered the bread. “We like the same things. Movies. The Muny opera.” Did the doctor even know about the summer musical troupe?

“Do you go to the Muny?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation. 

He shook his head. Should I ask him about his wife? His son? 

“Tell me about Sweden,” I cut up the roast beef, ignoring the unfamiliar smell of pork from his plate. 

“Oh, it’s lovely. You should go,” gripping his knife and fork in the reversed manner Europeans use. He popped a chunk of meat into his mouth. 

I stirred the mashed potatoes with my fork feeling their hot steam on my face. 

“So, is Billy romantic? Does he send you love letters?” He reached for the salt shaker. 

Love letters? Did a Valentine’s card count? Billy sent as many letters as flowers. “Uh…no.” Was Billy romantic? We kissed often. He said he loved me.

“Love letters are beautiful.” He attacked his sauerkraut. “You know Swedes believe in free love.” 

Free love? This was a few years before the 1968 summer of love, and flowers in your hair. I was an eighteen-year-old virgin sipping lemonade. 

“You finished? Let’s get some ice cream.” He scraped his chair back. I followed through the revolving door.

As we launched onto the sidewalk toward the local Velvet Freeze, the doctor took my hand. His large fingers wrapped around mine with an unexpected gentleness. I hesitated and looked up. He was staring straight ahead and hadn’t missed a step. Should I drop his hand? Would he be angry? Did I want to? I wasn’t frightened, just surprised. Sexual harassment wasn’t in anyone’s vocabulary back then. Rape wasn’t mentioned out loud. The words weren’t screamed on headlines or TV; social media didn’t exist. Doctors were educated professionals. I felt safe. The summer sunshine offered comfortable warmth, not the usual sizzling, unbearable heat common to the Midwest. Orange day lilies in full glory lined the curb. Men, women, and children strolled the wide sidewalk. What did they think of us? A graying suited-up man holding the hand of a teenage girl? Or did they even notice? Were we such an oddity? For a doctor and his employee, the behavior was an anomaly. But a father out with his daughter? How sweet. 

I ordered a chocolate nut fudge ice cream cone; he had chocolate mint. 

The next morning, I arrived at 9:00 as usual, called hello to the doctor, who grunted a good morning. An envelope with “Renee” on it, written in his familiar script was on my desk. I opened it. 

“Dearest, 

‘Each morning I listen for the sound of your footsteps coming down the hall toward the office. I eagerly await the moment you open the door. Your arrival fills me with such joy and tenderness. I so love your blue eyes, your soft blonde hair. I long to kiss your pink lips.’”

The letter dropped from my trembling hands landing next to that day’s stack of patient notes and the doctor’s instructions. I grabbed my purse and yanked open the office door, heard it click shut behind me. My heels clattered on the hardwood floors as I ran to the elevator and rode down to the first floor, relieved to find the red and white city bus still at the curb, promising me a ride home. I displayed my student pass to the driver, turned down the aisle, and collapsed into one of the empty seats before me. As the bus groaned away, I looked out the front panoramic window at the giant buildings comprising the complex: a consortium of hospitals, clinics, and one of the most revered medical schools in the country. I was a mere speck in that landscape. Leaning my head against the cracked black leather seat, I cried. For the money? For the roses? For me? 

9 January, 2018

Renee C. Winter

is a memoirist whose essays have appeared in the 2016 anthology Tales of Our Lives: Reflection Pond (Knowledge Access Books) and another is forthcoming in Coachella Review. She has also presented her work at the annual “Celebration of the Muse” event honoring female writers living in the Santa Cruz, California. A retired attorney, she currently is a volunteer writing instructor at the Santa Cruz County Jail.

9 January, 2018

KHALASS (ENOUGH)

Characters: Sara–American woman, 20-40 years old. Khalid-Egyptian man, 20-40 years old

Setting: The top of the great pyramid of Egypt. Full moon.

Time: Night.

(Night. Full moon. On top of the Great Pyramid of Egypt. Spooky and beautiful at the same time. The top of the pyramid is an uneven surface of worn stone blocks, forming two or three playing levels. The surface area on top is larger than one would think. Many of the stones are covered in graffiti. A moment of moonlit peaceful silence, then Sara emerges, climbing up over the edge to the top. Out of breath, she looks around, realizes she’s made it, raises her arms in victory!)

SARA

(In a loud whisper…)

YES!

(Spins around gleefully.)

YES! Awesome! Been there! Done that!

(She checks the view from front of stage.)

My God!… Check… this… out!!

(She rushes back to where she first appeared, loud whisper over edge…)

Cal! Come on! This place is incredible! (Pause.) Cal? Where are you? Cal!

KHALID

Quiet! They will hear you!

SARA

What’s wrong?

KHALID

I’m taking a rest. 

SARA

You’re not still scared?

KHALID

No, I’m not still scared.

SARA

Then come on. I’m on the top. 

KHALID

I’m more scared.

SARA

Come on. Only six more feet and you can say you’ve done it. 

KHALID

Up. Only six more feet up but how many feet down?

SARA

Hand me the backpack.

(She pulls up the backpack.)

Ok, now grab here and put your foot in that crack. 

KHALID

Show the flashlight. 

SARA

We can’t. They’ll see us.

KHALID

Maybe they will rescue me.

SARA

You big weenie. 

KHALID

Weenie… what is this?

SARA

(Sara lies down, reaching over.) 

Give me your hand… ok, put your foot there… left, left. No! Right foot but move it left. Got it?

KHALID

Yadi el nila ana eih kan gabne fi el hebaba di! [Oh shit, what the hell am I doing in this mess?!]

SARA

What?!

KHALID

My new jeans! They are cut open.

SARA

Oh my god, we’re all gonna die! Ok, come on, one, two, three… heave!

(He comes sprawling over the edge onto the top. Lies stunned, afraid to move.)

You did it! See, no problem. Check it out. Amazing! Ladies and Gentlemen, you’ve read about it. You’ve seen it on TV. You are now, in fact, standing atop one of the Seven Wonders of the World… The Great Pyramid of Egypt. 

KHALID

How are we going to get down? 

SARA

Open your eyes. 

KHALID

Everybody says going down is even worse. 

SARA

Come on, get up or… (Tickles him.)… Gootchy-gootchy-gootchy… 

KHALID

Ok, ok, stop it. Don’t fool around like this! 

SARA

Gootchy, gootchy! 

KHALID

It’s dangerous! 

SARA

Look how far you can see.

(She opens backpack, takes out water bottle, tangerines, chocolate. Khalid looks down.) 

KHALID

Oh my God! 

SARA

I told you! You can practically see all of Cairo. The stars look so close.  

KHALID

The ground looks so far.

SARA

Ohhh… Do you want me to hold your little hand. 

KHALID

People fall off here every year. 

SARA

Come over here. I’ve got chocolaaate! 

KHALID

You don’t know. They do! Crazy fools… like us. Dead! 

SARA

It’s magical up here. 

KHALID

Backs broken. Heads open. Ha tilai’i emkhakh fi khul hetta. [You’ll find brains everywhere.] 

SARA

Quiet. 

KHALID

The government covers this up so it won’t frighten tourists. I’m Egyptian so I know these things. Smashed like bugs. 

SARA

Ssshhh! Listen… 

KHALID

(Jumps up scared.)  

What? What?!

(Stumbles.)

Oww, oww!

SARA

Listen! 

KHALID

(Pause, whispers…) 

I don’t hear anything! 

SARA

Beautiful, isn’t it? The music of the stars. 

KHALID

My God… I’ve twisted my ankle. 

SARA

Look at that moon… it’s huge! 

KHALID

They’re going to have to send a helicopter to bring us from here. We’ll be arrested, then fired. Maybe they will cancel the film crew’s permit for the pyramids or maybe for all of Egypt. How would you like this? The whole film crew kicked out of Egypt because we break the rules. 

SARA

Come on, enjoy the moment. 

KHALID

Look at the moon, listen to the stars! Do you think I’m enjoying this damn moment? 

SARA

Doesn’t it make you want to kiss? 

KHALID

(Dead stop.) You are serious? 

SARA

(She nods. He leans in and is just about to kiss her when she jumps away, prepares to flee.)

But first you gotta catch me! 

KHALID

Oh my God.

(He gives up and slumps down.)

SARA

Come on! Let’s play scarab, scarab, who’s got the scarab! I’ll be Cleopatra and you be King Tut.

KHALID

They were from different centuries.

SARA

You’re from a different century. 

KHALID

I’m not going to chase you around the top of the pyramid! It’s dangerous. 

SARA

You chased me all the way up here. 

KHALID

I didn’t chase you. 

SARA

What do you call it? 

KHALID

I volunteered to help you. 

SARA

You’re afraid of heights. 

KHALID

So? 

SARA

I practically had to carry you. 

KHALID

I’m sorry you feel this way. 

SARA

Admit it, you’re attracted to me so you did the macho thing and followed me up here. 

KHALID

(Examining the embarrassing hole in the crotch of his jeans.)

These are real Levis! My cousin brings them all the way from China! 

SARA

You probably figured you get me up here all alone, a full moon, a million stars, a loose American woman.

(She leans over to get a playful look at the hole in his jeans.) 

KHALID

Don’t look!  

SARA

“Come with me to ze Casbah, where we will make beautiful music together.” 

KHALID

(Pause.) What is this Casbah? 

SARA

You’ve never heard of the Casbah? 

KHALID

It is for music? 

SARA

The Casbah is where you’re supposed to take me on your magic carpet to kiss me, ravish me, make me wear see-through silky things and write bad checks. 

KHALID

Wait, maybe I know it. In the Cairo Trade Center? 

SARA

I’m devastated. Don’t you ever watch cartoons? Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves? Flying carpets! Men with big mustaches and long curvy knives shouting, “open sesame” and sweeping women off to their harems! 

KHALID

Maybe this is Yemen. 

SARA

And what about Anthony and Cleopatra? My god! They probably stood right here! And the English Patient? This is supposed to be the land of mystery and romance!  

KHALID

I like this movie very much, the English Patient. 

SARA

And you’re telling me that my life-long romantic fantasy is just another urban myth. 

KHALID

Sorry? I don’t understand. 

SARA

Well at least you chased me up the Great Pyramid. How many women can say that? 

KHALID

I didn’t chase you. 

]SARA

So, you’re saying you don’t want to kiss me? 

KHALID

(Pause.) 

Of course, I want to kiss you. 

SARA

See! 

KHALID

But that isn’t why I climb here. 

SARA

And I was getting all weak in the knees. 

KHALID

You laugh at me. I am a joke, yes? 

SARA

I didn’t say that.

KHALID

Yanni, because I am afraid. You make fun of me. 

SARA

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rag on you. 

KHALID

Ma’alisch. [Doesn’t matter.] It is nothing. I am a big boy. 

SARA

Really. I’m sorry. Peace, Ok?

KHALID

Sure, sure. Peace. It’s ok. 

SARA

It is beautiful though, isn’t it? Like the dark side of the moon. Spooky and beautiful at the same time. 

KHALID

Enti zayy il amer. [You are like the moon.] 

SARA

What? 

KHALID

Maybe like you. You are like the moon. 

SARA

Ohh… you sweet talking man. Maybe you do have potential. 

KHALID

Shofti baa’. [See!] Like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic! 

SARA

Oh please! 

KHALID

I love this movie! (Holds arms out like the famous scene.) 

SARA

Cal… 

KHALID

Kate Winslet! So beautiful! 

SARA

Cal! 

KHALID

Sixteen times I have seen this movie! 

SARA

I can’t get romantic thinking about Leonardo Di Caprio. 

KHALID

No? 

SARA

No. 

KHALID

Oh.  

SARA

So… what would happen if they caught us up here? Arrest us? 

KHALID

My god, I don’t know. Make us pay a million pounds baksheesh. Which I don’t have. 

SARA

Why’d you come up here then? If not for little old me. 

KHALID

(Pause.) I wanted to see if I could do it. 

SARA

Because you were afraid? 

KHALID

Yes. 

SARA

That’s so fantastic! It’s very empowering to overcome fears. Fear is just of the unknown. You know what I mean? We’re scared of what we don’t know. Like the dark. Like death. Like Egypt! 

KHALID

You were afraid from Egypt? 

SARA

I was about to pee my pants. I got the call for this job and my first thought was, “No way, Jose!” I’m too young to be massacred.  

KHALID

Egypt is not like this!

SARA

It was fear of the unknown! My god, all we ever hear about the Middle-East is hotels bombed, tourists slaughtered, and guys with funny beards shouting, “Death to America!” Like everybody hates us. 

KHALID

We don’t hate you! 

SARA

Exactly! And I love it here! The people! 

KHALID

Egyptians are the friendliest people in the world! 

SARA

The history, sailing on the Nile, Siwa! I’ll never forget Siwa as long as I live. Running down those sand dunes. The oasis. All the little kids shouting, “What’s your name?” “What’s your name?” It’s changed me. The way I look at the world. If I had listened to everybody else I’d still be sitting in Silver Lake, clutching my latte, scared of anybody in a turban. What’s ironic? I feel ten times safer here than walking around LA. And certainly more welcome. 

KHALID

Il ham du lileh. [Thanks to God,] I was here before you know. 

SARA

Wait! Here? On top?  

KHALID

Not all the way. When I was little. For school trip. They give permission for students to climb. 

SARA

You’re kidding. How old were you? 

KHALID

Maybe ten years. I didn’t want to and my friends make fun of me. Calling me names. So, I try but I got sick. 

SARA

Uh oh. 

KHALID

I think I drink too much Pepsis. I… ragaat… (Mimes throwing up)… I don’t know it in English. 

SARA

Throw up? You threw up? 

KHALID

Yes. On the Great Pyramid. 

SARA

Oh, you poor thing. You must have been scared to death. 

KHALID

So maybe many can say they have climbed the pyramid but I think I am the only one who can throw up on it. 

SARA

Ohhhh… was that the most afraid you’ve ever been? 

KHALID

I don’t know. 

SARA

That was my favorite scene from the English Patient. Remember? When he asks her that? “What’s the most afraid you’ve ever been?” 

KHALID

Most afraid? 

SARA

(Looking into Khalid’s eyes.)

And her heart’s pounding and she looks in his eyes and says, “That’s the way I feel right now.” 

KHALID

(Blowing it.) I don’t remember this scene. 

SARA

You have to! 

KHALID

It is from the English Patient? 

SARA

Yes! When they were in the bathtub together? After he ripped her dress off?

KHALID

I think the censors, maybe they cut this scene. 

SARA

That was the best part! He had this great apartment in the old part of Cairo. Totally went native. Carved wood.  

Slow, steamy fans. This huge bathtub. Brrr… it still gives me a shiver. Although maybe it’s just the wind. 

KHALID

You are cold? 

SARA

A little. 

KHALID

I’m sorry. Here… (He tries to put his jacket around her.) 

SARA

No, no really. I didn’t mean that. 

KHALID

No. Ma’alisch [Doesn’t matter.] 

(He puts it around her.) 

I am used to this. 

SARA

Thank you. 

(He sits closer.)

SARA (Con’t)

Hey, look! A shooting star! 

KHALID

Where? 

SARA

There… you missed it. Make a wish. 

KHALID

I wish we get down alive. 

SARA

Something good. 

KHALID

I wish I have seen this bathtub scene. 

SARA

I’ll bet. 

KHALID

I wish to know you more. 

SARA

That’s better. 

KHALID

You think this is possible? 

SARA

You still haven’t answered the big question.

KHALID

What? 

SARA

The most scared you’ve ever been. Now? Sitting here on the edge of the world with the crazy American woman? 

KHALID

No. You are crazy but I am not afraid from you. 

SARA

Come on, what then?

KHALID

I don’t know. 

SARA

I may have to tickle you again… 

KHALID

Ok, ok… maybe… maybe it is when I am a student… at the university. I like to draw, you know? 

SARA

You’re an artist? 

KHALID

No, not really. Cartoons. My friend had a website, a blog. 

SARA

Like a comic strip? 

KHALID

No, no. Political. Political cartoons…about what was done at the university… and here in Egypt. 

SARA

Uh oh. 

KHALID

The police come to my house in the night and take me to the jail. 

SARA

Oh shit. You’re kidding. 

KHALID

They tell me stop. If I want to continue at the university, I must stop.  

SARA

They threatened you? 

KHALID

I sit for many hours with my eyes covered. Blind fold. My friend was also arrested, beaten. I was very afraid. 

SARA

Jesus. 

KHALID

For me. For my family. I prayed very hard. I think they will beat me too but finally they let me go. My father, he is very angry. 

SARA

I guess! 

KHALID

He slaps me. Here in the mouth. 

SARA

He hit you? 

KHALID

He is very angry from me. 

SARA

Why? 

KHALID

I think he is afraid too. The government is very powerful, very serious. Not for cartoons. Not for laughing. 

SARA

I’m sorry. 

KHALID

I don’t think they would do this in your country? 

SARA

My god, sometimes our country is a cartoon. Or a made for TV Fox movie. “Mission accomplished!” “Axis of Evil!” 

KHALID

Ah yes… Bush. 

SARA

Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan. 

KHALID

This is wrong. This invasion. 

SARA

Well, no shit, Sherlock. 

KHALID

You agree with this? 

SARA

Anybody with a brain agrees with this. 

KHALID

What about Israel? 

SARA

What about it? 

KHALID

Invading Lebanon, Palestine. Taking their land. Bombing the poor peoples. 

SARA

Nobody should bomb anybody. 

KHALID

But you are American. 

SARA

And? 

KHALID

America gives them the bombs! 

SARA

You agree with everything your government does? 

KHALID

Of course not. 

SARA

So, why would I? It’d be like me blaming you for all the rude remarks I have to listen to from men in the streets here. 

KHALID

This is a bad thing. Shebeb rewesh. [Flashy young men.] 

SARA

Shebeb assholes! I mean what is this?… (Long disgusting kissing noise.)…Why do Egyptian men do that? Is that genetic or just genital? “I want practice make love you.” Why do women have to listen to that? 

KHALID

I think they watch too much western movies. 

SARA

Right. If that was the case then men in the States would be ten times worse and, believe me, at the moment I’ve got a whole new respect for their gender sensitivity. 

KHALID

I’m sorry. I am ashamed for Egypt when I see this. 

SARA

Do Egyptian women have to put up with this? 

KHALID

I think maybe we eat now. 

SARA

Chicken. 

KHALID

No, only chocolate and mandarin. Please? Ok, peace? 

SARA

How do you say peace in Arabic? 

KHALID

Salaam. 

SARA

Salaam? 

KHALID

Bazzapt. [Exactly.] Peace. Sit please… I am your tour guide. Sit! 

(She does.)

I studied Egyptology you know. Yanni, I know all about pyramids. I think you don’t know there are 97 of them.  

SARA

No way. 

KHALID

Giza, Saqquara, Dahshur, Abusir, many. Maybe more still buried. 

SARA

Wow. 

KHALID

That way is Saqquara and Dashur. During the day, you see them from here. There, Cairo. 

SARA

Looks like an ocean of light.

KHALID

Sixteen million peoples. See there… the Cairo Tower that Nasser built… and there is the Sheraton and the Hilton. 

SARA

Major landmarks. 

KHALID

Yes. And here the Sphinx. In Arabic called Abul Hol. “The Father of Horrors.” 

SARA

Whoooaa… 

KHALID

And that way desert… all the way to Libya. Forty days by camel.

SARA

Right. 

KHALID

No, no. I’m serious. Forty days and, maybe for us, 1001 nights. We put our camp under the stars, yes? The camels grazing. The oud and flute playing. Incense. Our tent with many rich carpets made of finest wool. 

SARA

Sure. And we’re eating sheep’s eyeballs and I’m wearing one of those slinky, red belly-dancer things we saw at the bazaar. 

KHALID

Meshi Khalass, [Ok, sure,] as you like… and black khol for your eyes. And I will buy for you the same perfume Cleopatra wears. 

SARA

And I’ll feed you grapes that I peeled with my own teeth.

(She demonstrates on a tangerine.) 

KHALID

You dance barefoot on the sand and then we will, how do you say it? Enjoy the moment? 

SARA

Dream on sucker!

(Playfully mashes tangerine in his mouth.)

After you wouldn’t play hide the scarab? 

KHALID

I wait for more stars to fall and make this wish. 

SARA

Did you really study Egyptology? 

KHALID

Like my father. This is why he names me Khalid. Khalid means immortal. Like the pharaohs. Like the pyramids. 

SARA

Wait, what’s your name? I thought it was Cal. 

KHALID

Khalid, but you Americans call me Cal. This is easier I think. 

SARA

Oh my god. I’ve been calling you the wrong name? Why didn’t you tell me? 

KHALID

Mish mushkilla. [No problem.] No problem. Maybe it is difficult for you.

SARA

Duh! Stupid American! Calling you Cal, like some Texas used car dealer. 

KHALID

Ma’alisch. [Doesn’t matter.] Really! 

SARA

(Tries to pronounce it.)

Ok, Khalid? 

KHALID

Khaaalid. 

SARA

Khaaalid? 

KHALID

Mumtez! [Excellent!] Your Arabic very beautiful. 

SARA

So, then Khalid, how come, if you were destined to be an Egyptologist, you’re working on a movie crew? 

KHALID

This is first time for me. My cousin knows the assistant director. When I leave the university, the only job I am offered is tour guide. But after the Sinai attacks there is no work for me. 

SARA

Sinai… oh my god! That hotel. I saw it on TV. Over and over I saw it. 

KHALID

These are very bad men. Not real Egyptians. This is not the right way of Islam. 

SARA

Same all over I guess. We’ve got our own share of crazies back home. Oklahoma, Texas militias, Cheney. (Pause.) The world should be like this… peaceful… quiet. 

KHALID

Beautiful. 

SARA

Sitting here I feel like I belong. Like I’ve been here before. 

KHALID

Maybe you were a queen here in another life. Very beautiful wife of Pharaoh. 

SARA

More like kitchen slave in the Pharaoh’s palace scraping leftover peacock off the royal plates. 

KHALID

I’m serious. You look very Egyptian. 

SARA

Right. 

KHALID

I think Egyptian women are the most beautiful in the world. 

SARA

And I think the moonlight’s starting to affect your brain. 

KHALID

And your name, Sara, is very Egyptian. [Sara in Arabic rhymes with bar… Sar-a] 

SARA

Really? 

KHALID

Yes, of course. Many girls here have this same name. You pass for Egyptian. 

SARA

I guess I ought to… my family moved from here a long time ago. 

KHALID

Really? You are serious? 

SARA

Ever heard of the Exodus? 

KHALID

Exodus? What is this? 

SARA

When all the Jews left Egypt, and went to Israel. You know Moses? The Red Sea? The Burning Bush? All that? 

KHALID

What are you saying? I don’t understand. You are Israeli? (Laughing.) No. 

SARA

No, but I’m Jewish. I’m going to visit Israel after I leave here. 

KHALID

You are Jewish? 

SARA

Yes. 

KHALID

Why? 

SARA

Why am I Jewish? 

KHALID

Why don’t you tell me this?

SARA

Well… mish mushkilla. (Imitating him.) I think maybe it is difficult for you. 

KHALID

Jewish?! 

SARA

Why should it matter? 

KHALID

So, you think the Israelis are right in everything they do! 

SARA

I don’t think anybody’s right in everything they do. I admit I used to be a bit prejudiced but now I see that there are two sides. 

KHALID

There are no sides! They are wrong! 

SARA

God. Mr. Open-Minded. 

KHALID

(Accusatory.)

Why do you go to Israel? 

SARA

I have relatives there. I want to see them. I want to see Jerusalem. 

KHALID

The Israelis have stolen Jerusalem. They are the terrorists.  

SARA

Maybe they have, maybe they haven’t. I really don’t know. But I think it’s only fair to go see for myself instead of just listening to everybody else. 

KHALID

Jewish, Israeli. These are the same thing. Of course, you are on their side! 

SARA

I’m not on anybody’s side! 

KHALID

Keeping Palestinian people prisoners in their own country? 

SARA

I’m keeping an open mind! Can’t I have an open mind? Can’t you have an open mind? 

KHALID

It’s not us. It’s them. 

SARA

It’s us. It’s them. It’s us. It’s them. I get so sick of that. Don’t you? 

KHALID

What do you know of this? Nothing! My friend, she is Palestinian. When she is young, her family is taken from their land. Everything! Their house destroyed! Her father now has no job. No money. Nobody to hire him. He becomes very angry and his wife leaves him. What of this? Hunh? All is taken from him because of the Jews! Because they want his country! You think this fair? This is open-minded? This is two sides? 

SARA

Khalid… 

KHALID

Why doesn’t America stop this? 

SARA

I don’t want to fight with you. 

KHALID

Because the Jews control America! 

SARA

Well, my god, so much for international relations! 

KHALID

I think maybe it is not a good idea I be here with you. 

SARA

So now suddenly you have to hate me cause I’m Jewish? What happened to the thousand and one nights? Hunh? Same perfume Cleopatra wears? 

KHALID

I didn’t know this before. 

SARA

I knew you were Muslim and it didn’t matter to me. 

KHALID

You don’t understand. 

SARA

Oh brilliant! Great comeback!  

KHALID

I’m sorry. I am leaving. 

SARA

Good. Fine. Take a hike. Who’s stopping you? 

KHALID

My jacket.

(She removes jacket, throws it over the side.)

Hey! Hey! My god! You are crazy. 

SARA

I’m an Israeli terrorist! Remember? 

KHALID

I don’t know why I come here. 

SARA

To overcome your fears, wasn’t it? Only I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of it. 

KHALID

I’m going. (Starts to leave.) 

SARA

And to think… you almost kissed a JEW!

(She turns around and sits down, huddled up, staring out at audience. He looks over the edge, looks back at her, looks over the edge… sits down and puts head in hands. Long pause…)

Afraid? 

KHALID

You have the flashlight. 

(She grabs it out of the backpack like she’s going to throw it too.)

No! Please… please. 

SARA

(She hesitates then puts it down on the rock.)

Take it!

KHALID

(He goes to pick it up very carefully as if she might attack him.)

What about you? It is harder going down. 

SARA

What do you care? 

KHALID

I think we must go together. It is safer this way. 

SARA

Safer for who?! 

KHALID

Please, I am responsible for you. 

SARA

No wonder Cleopatra killed herself. 

KHALID

You don’t understand, this is difficult for me. 

SARA

I think sometimes that people love to suffer. You ever notice that? It’s like a worldwide contest to prove who’s suffered the most. If you’ve suffered the most, then 

somehow it puts you in the right! The Palestinians have suffered so they must be right. The Jews have suffered so they must be right. It seems to me like everybody’s suffering and nobody’s right! 

KHALID

(Pause.)

Sometimes I don’t know what to think. 

SARA

I really liked you!! 

KHALID

I like you also! (Pause.) You are shaking. You are cold again.

(He touches her shoulder, she shakes him off.) 

SARA

No! 

KHALID

Sara… 

SARA

I thought you were leaving. 

KHALID

Please… It’s crazy but I still want to kiss you. 

SARA

Oh yeah? And what if your friends found out? You’d get thrown out of the Arab League or whatever. World’s friendliest people!  

KHALID

It’s not so easy to suddenly change. 

SARA

What do you see when you look at me? Hunh? 

KHALID

Please… 

SARA

What do you see?!

KHALID

Sara. I see Sara. 

SARA

Sara the Semite? Sara the loose American woman? 

KHALID

I see Sara that is very friendly, very kind to people working on their first movie. 

SARA

That’s all? A minute ago, it was Sara, Queen of the Desert! 

KHALID

That is also not afraid from anything. Not from the pyramid… not from Egypt…not even from me. (Pause.) I’m sorry. 

SARA

Don’t say it unless you mean it. 

KHALID

I do! 

(No answer from Sara.)

We have a saying in Egypt. “Min el alb lilalb.” … From heart to heart.

(No answer.)

From my heart to your heart… I’m serious. I mean it. 

SARA

(Pause.) 

Say it again? 

KHALID

Min el alb lilalb. (Pause.) It’s very strange I think… if we would kiss now it will mean more than before… yes? Before it was just… how did you say? “Hide the scarab”? Now it is serious. Now it is political. How is this? How can a kiss be political? But you are right… if my family knows this thing… that we are here… my friends… 

SARA

Maybe they should all get their heads out of their asses. 

KHALID

(Shocked.) 

What do you know of my friends? You say this? 

SARA

Well? 

KHALID

And my family also? Heads in ass?! 

SARA

No. 

KHALID 

My mother? My father?! 

SARA

Cal… 

KHALID

I love my family. My friends. 

SARA

I’m sorry! 

KHALID

We are close! Egyptians are very close! 

SARA

I know that. 

KHALID

I am to give them up because they don’t think as you?! 

SARA

No! 

KHALID

Maybe you are right! Maybe we are too angry about the Jews. But this is many years. Many wars! 

SARA

I know, I know… 

KHALID

And the Israelis too! The Americans! They also must pull heads from ass. 

SARA

Yes. 

KHALID

The British! And the French! 

SARA

And the Iraqis? The Palestinians? 

KHALID

(Pause.) 

SARA

Hello?… Suicide bombs? 

KHALID

This is wrong also, this bombing. 

SARA

You think? Maybe? 

KHALID

But what else can they do?!

(She gives him a look and turns away.)

Ok, yes! Khalass! Enough! Everyone, everywhere pulling heads from asses. This is best, yes?

(Sara nods.)

Including me.

(Sara nods.)

… You think maybe in this “Casbah” there are no politics?

(Sara shrugs.)

… Peace? Ok?

(He tentatively touches her. She pulls away…)  

SARA

Tomorrow too? 

KHALID

Yes. 

SARA

Or is this just some treaty of convenience? 

KHALID

No! 

SARA

And your friends? 

KHALID

(Pause.) 

This peace is harder. 

SARA

Maybe like going down the pyramid by yourself with no flashlight. 

KHALID

Maybe we should just jump. It is easier I think. 

SARA

Aww… you want me to hold your little hand? 

KHALID

Yes.

(She thinks about it and doesn’t. Pause.) 

Sara? 

SARA

Khalid?105 

KHALID

I think this is the most afraid that I’ve ever been…right now. 

SARA

Good line. 

KHALID

Peace… Ok?… Please? 

SARA

(Pause… nods.) 

Salaam… I wish…

KHALID

What?

(She shrugs… No answer.)

Me too.

(Pause.)

Maybe we wait for another star. 

(They both look up at the stars.) 

END