The house with wrinkles had welcomed back its company. The weather was chillier and a few clouds joined many.
One of these mornings, Khader's prayer was interrupted by Badr's call from the door. Meena was held by them from the floor and waking up from his rest. His friends knew that there are nights where Meena's heart accupies his mind; where he mixes his colors with red and white wine. And at such nights, their house would be his nest.
"We have a room designed for roses picked from Azhar's garden where Diya laid me down and told me about last night. Khader sang an original, he said. Badr met a man called Fairouz, and Darwich was somewhere out of sight. I, on the other hand, had a bottle and a story in my hand."
"We have a kitchen with sweets more than sours which Khader walked out from with a glass of coffee.
'Khod yabni,' he said to me, 'did any of you see Darwich?'"
Darwich had written a letter of apology to his partner the night before. Meena remembered being with him before he left. A year had passed since Darwich and his partner separated, but Azhar's death brought back love. It brought back time. It brought back death.
"Strut pass my eyelashes and alight on my cheek."
"We have an alley _a door way_ with a wall I wrote that on once. It has frames that no amount of pleasure can fill; no amount of tendency, no amount of ecstasy, no amount of grunts."
Meena spoke with a steady stream as he said these words; almost like a poet frees idioms too heavy to fly as birds. He then said that the next interview can be arranged at home, holding his purse and poems.