If You Open Up, I'm Going In

At some drunken party, at some rich prick’s house, for some forgettable excuse for a gathering, I saw what I knew could only be trouble. She sat on the stairs, surrounded by two other girls, each struggling to nurse a drink, a cigarette, and one terribly wasted friend. She sat crying, or pretended to, her long curly hair covering her face as she cupped a hand on her forehead. One of the other girls looked like the chubby best friend. She was rubbing weeping girl’s back, whispering something in her ear, which in my experience was an altered version of either ‘hey sweetie, everything will be alright’ or, if extremity dictated, ‘come on, sweetie, let me take you home.’

The other girl just seemed like an accessory. Chubby friend said something to her and they both got up to go, trying to pull the crying girl to her feet. But she didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t even want to stand up. So the two gently gestured to her and left her on her own.

Tom had obviously taken hold of the sound system, because now I could hear New Order playing Regret. There were people dancing in the living room, the space between each body giving me random glimpses of the girl at the other end of the room. Still alone, still crying.

“You’re a prick,” said Arjun, who was standing on my right and had apparently seen what I saw.

“Fuck off,” I replied.

I didn’t know Arjun very well, but somehow he knew me well enough. Not good. Besides, what exactly did he think I was going to do?

“She’s a mess, dude,” Arjun said.

“Who?” Eric cut in. Eric was one of those people who was always with a crowd, but never understood what they were talking about. The one who goes to bars with his friends and busies himself with listening to the band while everyone else stares at the fit waitress.

“Oh, her,” he said as Arjun motioned his head. “Yeah, that’s Reema. Total drama queen.”

It was getting too smoky. “I’m heading outside,” I told the guys and walked off.

Sensing that my can was getting light, I headed to the bar to get a new one. I saw Ryan and Ash there, looking slick and talking shit. Ash’s real name is Abdul Haziz. How it became Ash, I’ll never know. He ran an event company that organized DJ parties in small clubs around Dubai. His master plan was to promote local DJs he believed were on the verge of breaking through. None ever did. They always played the same kind of garbage that only results from mixing traditional chants with cheesy Euro dance. He saw me approaching and smiled me a welcome, his teeth yellow from a staple diet of Lebanese Bistro showarmas. What I thought would be a five-minute task soon became a fifteen-minute debate on whether The Prodigy would ever come to Dubai, and how long their gig would go on before the CID came to pull the plug.

I lit a cigarette as soon as I got out. The rich kid’s house had an impressive pool. But no one was outside because it was smack in the middle of July and the humidity was just satanic. I was halfway through the stick when I heard someone ask: “Did a girl with curly long hair come here?”

I turned around and saw chubby girl holding two plastic cups. I told her no, thinking she would turn around and leave, but she just stood there. She started drinking one of the cups and tried to make conversation.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” she prodded.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

The thing I hate the most about small talk is how you have to try and answer each stupid question with equally stupid answers.

“I’m sure I saw you somewhere before.”

“At a gig, maybe.”

“No, somewhere else.”

“On stage?”

“No… oh, you’re in a band?”

“Yeah.”

“No, not that. Somewhere else.”

She had already finished her drink and was beginning to eye her other cup intently.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “The beach. I saw you at a beach.”

“When?”

“Last week, I think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you were surfing, I think.”

“I don’t surf.”

“No?”

“And I… don’t go to the beach.”

“Oh.”

She had already finished her drink (both of them). She started giving me that expected package of engaging smile, ego boosting enquiries and submissive nods. But we didn’t have much to talk about, except how humid it was outside and what a great party it was inside. It was either my lack of enthusiasm or her empty cups that urged her back in.

I was already sweating. My cigarette started tasting saltier and each drag heavier. I knew if I came in now, people would smell me from a distance.

“Is she gone?”

I turned around and saw Drama Queen. Eric said her name was Rita. Or something like that.

“Your friend?” I asked. “Yeah, she came here looking for you.”

“I don’t want to see her,” Rita replied, holding her hand to her eye. Her eyeliner had left tear streaks on her cheeks. Drama Queen. Or emo kid. What’s the difference?

“Got another one?” she asked, pointing at my cigarette.

So I offered her a Marlboro Lights. In the next ten minutes, this girl who I have never spoken to before began to vomit out the story of her life. She began by telling me how two days ago, she confronted her boyfriend at his house, because she found out from a ‘close’ friend (probably Chubby) that he’s been cheating on her. As revenge, she had sex with his brother. Sadly, she’d come to know that her boyfriend never really fooled around. But by then, it was too late, because, as of forty minutes ago, he smashed his brother’s nose and told her they were over. Broken heart and broken bones. Kurt, your legacy lives on.

But she didn’t stop there. She told me how when she was younger, she used to hate herself. Mostly because she always ended up with the wrong guys. Guys who would experiment with her heart when they got bored experimenting with her body. Guys who forced her to do things she knew were wrong. She said it all developed from some insecure part of her that developed from when she was younger still; at a time when she hated herself for not developing breasts while her friends did.

A whole adolescence of self-loathing.

“But Steve…” she looked away, her eyes welling with a new set of tears. “Steve was such a great guy. He was so nice to me.”

Now it was full blown weeping.

“I didn’t want to sleep with Carl. Carl was just a bastard!”

We were sitting next to each other on a sunbed by the pool. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried.

“Hey… C’mon. It’ll get better. C’mon.” That was the best I could do.

Rita, her head held low, began to lean on my side. I knew this position. You wrap your arms around the girl, hold her close to your chest, and if you’re willing to put in the extra effort, lower your lips to her ear and whisper something comforting.

“C’mon,” I said. “Done is done. It’ll get better.”

It probably won’t. Chances are, the rumors had already begun to spread and this girl was the centerpiece of the hottest gossip in Dubai. The guy will never want to see her or be seen with her; the brother would probably brag about his evil little deed; and she’d have to get over the sad little fact that it was quite clearly all her fault. And all the lies – the lie that started it all, the lies that would spread as a result, the lies she’d have to tell herself to get over the more bitter sentiment of regret.

The lies that people like me were telling her now.

“You’ll be alright.”

She felt warm in my arms. Almost feverish. Her face on my chest was creating a wet spot of tears on my already sweaty t-shirt. I felt awkward. I knew this girl was in some kind of mess, but her body was giving me ideas. I started to run my fingers in her hair.

She raised her face towards me. I expected that she had regained her composure and would tear away from our strangers’ embrace. But her eyes shone with tender longing, half closed in confused meekness.

I met her lips with mine. A liar’s kiss. I am the disposable solution to your problem. I am the emotional taxi that will take you were you want to be. I am the salt that flavors your heart with the tang of earth.

Her mouth tasted like cigarette and desperation. Her tears mixed with our saliva, creating a blend of sin that aroused an uncontrollable urge to do wrong. I was touching her, feeling her, cupping the yielding shape of her crotch. I breathed air only when I moved to lick her neck. Her moans served as my permission to park my hand inside her pants. Her pubic hair was wet with sweat and juice.

I pulled my face away and looked around. No one.

I quickly got up. She eyed me for a second, her lips brimming with questions, then turned her gaze downward.

I held out my hand. “Come on,” I gently urged.

She took my hand and stood up. I pulled her with me to the back of the house. There was a little cabin at the end of the yard. As I tried the door, I felt for any change in the way she held my hand. Would she loosen her grip? A change of heart? No. But the door was locked.

We quickly returned to the back of the house. Another door. This was open. I turned to look at her as we stepped in. But before I could register anything from her expression, her tongue was back in my mouth.

____________________________________________


A little over a year ago, I received an email from someone I hadn’t seen for a long while:

Hey,

How r u mike? Got ur email adres from Eric. Have u seen there daughter, btw? Looks exactly like Cindy. Cute thing. Nway, just wrote coz I remembered something the other day. That time we met. U know wht I mean. u took some clips on ur phone.

Jus wanted to know if u got rid of them. Coz I hope u did. I was fuct. You know that. Please, Mike. Just delete them.

Hope ur doing ok. Reema