Meena (Part XII)

Back at the appartment downtown, the scent of new love was stronger than that of lavender in the guest room and a meal with spices and lime. Diya was mixing ingredients and setting fire on steel when two men arrived on time.
"Elhamdillah 'al salameh!" said Darwich once Badr walked in.
"How was the land of queens?" Meena followed with sarcasm.

 Later that day, Meena went through a night of unsafety caused by a stranger he was exposed to. He was a lover thrown in a battle he rode himself into. It was a time that reminded him of another. Diya stayed up that night worried after a phone call from Meena's mother. Soon enough, Meena came in holding the door's handle as his feet dropped. Diya could smell his bitter breath when he helped him up.
"You got me worried about you."
"It's okay, I'm okay."
"Is that a bruise?!" Diya said noticing redness on Meena's pale shoulder, but Meena shook his hands off and walked to the toilet.
"I think I called my mother."
"She called asking about you."
"Tell her I'm fine!"
Meena said, shutting the door behind him.

If I'd tell Diya's story it would be one of an over-weight body and mind, a good friend, a punk rock fashioned hair stylist going into law, but it wouldn't be one of a lover. He didn't feel love in red, or roses. He didn't feel love under covers. Maybe for some, independence can take bigger shapes, and in a society that believes a man's maturity is like a loaded gun, there are men that rot like grapes.

Meena once said: "There's a sense of insight in involving with human bodies while at the same time evolving with your own. You come to see that all bodies are altered; that in your inexpressive, compressed and affected body, you're most heterogeneous."
Only through that view did I see how Diya was content.

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