Ouch,..

Tu veux un bonbon?...tiens.

I

The trees covered us. From that day on I wanted to live in the desert. That’s where I was born. Not in the desert. I was born on the east coast of the United States of America. I find the exact location irrelevant. For nine whole years I lived there and the only thing I find relevant concerning my stay in the US of A was my house. That was a while ago. Right now, however, I am sitting in the car, on Gemeize Street in Beirut, on a busy Friday night waiting in traffic. To be completely accurate I am sitting behind the wheel of my aunts Audi A6, which she let me drive around while she was out of the country on the condition that: if I fuck it up, she fucks me up. I said I understood.
It is nine PM and although it is evening and we are right smack in the middle of December I was sweltering in heat. That could have been the result of a) the fact that it was slightly warm outside and I was stuck in the car with the windows shut b) Because I was still a bit tipsy from the wine I had been drinking while playing cards an hour ago or c) a combination of both. I decide its c. The bar I am meeting my friends at is not that far along the way but with the amount of traffic I estimate about ten more minutes until my arrival. I decide to light a cigarette. After sticking the little white stick in the corner of my mouth I press my index finger down on the car lighter. It doesn’t hold. I decide that perhaps I should just keep my finger pressed on it until it heats up. So that is what I do. After around thirty seconds, I take the lighter out of its socket and examine it. Its interior is not orange, so I stick my finger in it to see if it actually heated up or not. FUCK! Ouch! Bad move baby. Bad move. I burnt my index finger. I try to light my cigarette but it seems it’s just not hot enough. My now very red index finger would beg to differ. I stick the lighter back into its socket. The Traffic still hasn’t moved a centimetre. With the cigarette still hanging on for dear life to my now dry lips, I decide to give the lighter another attempt. So again I stick my finger onto the lighter and wait. Now I wait for around forty-five seconds. After taking it out and examining it, I notice that it still had not turned to orange. No matter, I try lighting my cigarette, it doesn’t light. Is the cigarette at least even hot? To answer my question, without thinking, which is rather typical of me, I bring the cigarette to my face and stick the “supposedly” unlit end on my cheek. FUCK! Bad move nitwit. I burnt my cheek. Why did I do that? I ask myself while rubbing my cheek? Why would I ever want to test something’s heat by using my face? After this idiotic act, I get so frustrated, that I open my window and ask a random kid in the street to light my cigarette. This time it worked.
As the traffic moved on and I finally got out of the car and into the bar, I found myself on a slightly cramped table sitting in good company, the usual, Marya, Ayla, and a couple of others. There are two new faces, however. One belonged to a girl and was big and round with short wavy hair surrounding it. The other belonged to a good looking boy, Ayla’s potential new boyfriend. I say potential because, their initiation as a couple depended on my assessment of him, which was meant to take place tonight. He’s cute but the new girl wasn’t. Not a pretty girl poor thing, and she gave me the impression of a lesbian intellectual. That, by the way is neither an insult nor a compliment, it is a fact. It turned out to be a friend of Marya’s who went to Cambridge University. Since I see myself as an amicable and social human being, I of course take it upon myself to feign interest in her. After being introduced I ask her, “Well then, how do you like Camberidge?”
“You know, I really like it, except, the only thing is, its all white…”
Not exactly understanding what she meant by it being all white, I didn’t know what to say. I concluded that she meant that the city itself was white, like the buildings and houses, or perhaps it had snowed, and so on.
“Well that’s beautiful! Why is that a bad thing?” I asked.
Before I finished my question I realised everyone had become wide eyed and Ayla was blushing. What did I say wrong? I didn’t get it. Then again this wasn’t the first time something like this happened…
After a few seconds of silence, Marya bursts out laughing and manages to spit out,
“She meant the PEOPLE are white you idiot not the city!”
And everyone starts laughing. Not me.