Tuesday, May 5th, 2009.
My hands are covered in blue and pink highlighter stains. I like combining them to make purple, since I always lose my purple highlighters.
She lives on the 3rd floor of an old building in Al-Jam’ah district. The stairwell smells of laundry and the stairs aren’t even. There’s a small dark wooden door with a square doormat at the end of the stairs, that’s where she lives. I never ring the doorbell; she’s always standing there in the open doorway waiting for me.
Her home is small, cozy, clean and neat, but reeks of coconut oil. I sit on an old black desk chair facing a small wooden writing table, her 10 year old daughter offers me some very sweet artificial fruit juice. There is so much sugar in there I can’t tell which fruit it’s supposed to be.
In handicapped English, she tries to explain some papers to me. She was recommended as a doctor in that major. A PhD, not an MD. She seems like a nice lady, trying to make an honest living for her family. I don’t know anything about her husband.
She thinks I'm 19. very flattering. i don't mind.
I receive a message from you telling me that your day was fine and asking about mine. Was supposed to call you as soon as I stepped out of the shower but I had to rush out of the house with mom. I love your complexion, did I ever tell you that? I don’t think I have.