room with a view

the sea stared. she sat on the edge of the window. her hair started curling. she thought of crawling back in bed. no. the breeze the night the dark waters have engulfed her. she was the city. she stared at herself through the mist of the saltwater wind, dangling her feet into the emptiness of air. beirut.
her best friend (*one of many*) came from boston to see her once. a summer now buried under piles of pain. and of sandy chess games on polluted plastic mediterranean blueness. under a sky like no other. she told her beirut was like richard gere in pretty woman. it screws you and falls in love with you at the same time. she never went back.
the girl with the transforming hair kicked high into the blackness. the air was heavy and again she felt one with the city. some jackasses on the pavement cursed and threatened each other. they immediately evoked their mothers too. then they sat in front of the table for dwarves and plunged into the backgammon. they shared a hookah. apple. giggling girls entered the dorms. the lights of the sea flickered with the waves like a belt on fire. maybe van gogh went crazy in beirut. no. it's just like any city with a sea she told herself. what is ours is unique. it's the best. it's a nirvana. what a load of bull she told herself. the dry thought banished her pleasure with the sea. a veiled woman passed the light and dragged her child who was skipping with his shadow. the man that was there every night lit a cigarette and swallowed the girl with the tight jeans and clankering heels with his eyes. she walked faster. doesn't she know that he's one with the steel bars at the edge of the sea, with the rusted green benches that trip the roller bladers, with the crumbling rocks swarmed with drunken seagulls? he's the watcher that never moves. he's the city too. a mercedes (our taxis are called "service") slows down and slithers with the jeans girl. she walks faster and the car honks. she probably told him to get lost and the "service" roars back into the heart of darkness lined with lights. and palm trees. the city, and the girl, experience a moment like the moment after a sneeze. that refractory moment when you've just exploded and there is that blissful knowledge that there will be a few seconds of quiet respite, before the next explosion.
then the wind grew colder. she closed the large window and bolted it shut. she crawled under the covers. she didn't go to sleep for a long time.