Every time my aunt tells the story of how she and her husband came to be, she crosses one leg over the other, holds her cup of tea closer and throws her scarf to the side and smiles - that's when you know it's getting real.
"he was crazy about me" is always her starter, and for twenty straight years, not a single detail has changed.
she makes sure to stare at him as she tells the story of how they broke up for the first time, she also makes sure to emphasize that she was the one who did the "breaking up"
she tells us when she threw the ring he gave her across the street and didn't even stay long enough to watch him run after it,
how the next morning, she refused to meet him,
and the morning after,
and the week after,
until he surprised her in her workplace, with a large bouquet of flowers,
so large, she says, it covered his big head.
she tells us how he almost got to his knees to take her back, and i know my aunt would never say it, but she fell right for it.
her husband is always across of her when she tells the story, his face turns red but never once has denied what she was saying.
The stories go on and on, all night, until he can't take it anymore.
Unlike the Arabs, our men don't leave room for love, unless it's majestic, and will definitely not let you tell on the love, unless they mean it.
and every time my aunt tells the story of how she and her husband came to be, i cross my leg over the other, hold my head up a little higher so the tears won't fall, and wonder,
if twenty years from now, we could tell our story.
and if you would tell on the chasing i've done,
on the letters i wrote
if you'd still remember the poems,
i just hope it would be you and me.
and i'll tell the story.