She asked where I was from. I said Chicago. She said, no, like really. I said Palestine. She said, oh, cool, my grandparents moved to Israel last year. I kissed her anyway. She bit my lip. I bled a little. She said sorry, I tend to do that, and smiled. I said don’t worry, it happens all the time. She took off her bra and asked if I wanted the lights on or off. I said I’ve been seen before. She said, that’s funny and kinda hot. I said thanks, I think. Her cat stared from the corner. I didn’t make eye contact. She whispered something in Hebrew. I choked on her perfume. She asked if I was okay. I said yeah. She said are you sure. I said yeah. She wrapped her hands around my chest and said I was really tense. I said occupation will do that. She said what. I said never mind. She said I was funny. I said thanks, I think. When we were done, she offered me a joint and leftover shakshuka. I said sure. We sat cross-legged on her floor like a peace summit. I asked if her grandparents’ house had a key in the door when they moved in. I don’t understand, she said. I said never mind. We both yawned, said goodnight. I left—with the shakshuka. The next day, she sent a flirty text and a naked selfie. I wanted to tell her about my great-grandmother. About the pictures of her old house in Haifa. About the lemon trees. Instead, I jerked off to the selfie, ate the shakshuka cold, standing over the sink, and spat out the olives. Then I texted: what you doing tomorrow night? Also: do you have any pictures of your grandparents’ house?
About the Author
L.F. Khouri is a Palestinian writer who has studied in the U.S. and abroad. His work explores war, memory, and the inheritance of silence. His creative work have appeared or are forthcoming in literary journals such as The Offing, SmokeLong Quarterly, scaffold, Another Chicago Magazine, 50-wordstories, miniMAG, Literally Stories, and Eunoia Review.
