Vanilla & Blood

The last time I saw Beirut, a full moon was curbing its rooftops.

I held Athena in my arms, and she held the sea in her kohl-rimmed eyes.

Time felt tipsy. Athena sipped her red sangria and laughed, her lips, a frenzy of shades, her copper curls effervescing with vanilla.

Athena was the missing song in my playlist.

The last time I saw Beirut, the night was crisp. Athena and I were dancing to Arab House music, the kind of beat you never know if it was laughter or murder in disguise. Sometimes, it is just both.

That night, Athena raised her glass. "I love you," she cried. "I love you, and I don't expect a 'love you' back. I want you to kiss me."

Before I knew it, my hands were reaching out for her spine. And before we knew it, our lips intertwined, while the little consciousness I still had was recklessly following hers.

They say, he whose end draws near knows and feels and may even give signs or throw stray words or tell about it in a dream.

Athena said none.

She just danced that night, while the full moon curbed Beirut rooftops. She laughed and danced in my arms until the bullets barged through the crowd, and the floor was effervescing with vanilla

and blood.