ALI: Living the present in the past

            Drop by drop the rain, getting heavier like some enormous tap had been opened in the heavens above, started pounding on the roof of the black Skoda parked at the roadside of a beautiful and somber, albeit somewhat deserted Marine Drive, may be at the exact center of the Queen’s necklace arch. So hard the hammering of them rain drops became that it sounded to Ali like a thousand African drums being played at once.’ In no synchronization’ he added to his thoughts. He was looking out of the window, the imagery now skewed by the trails left by the droplets sliding down the glass pane.  Ali did not mind looking at portions of what he saw through the glass all skew-whiff. He had the choice to bring this window down and look at the world around him as clearly as the world could perceive itself to be. But he chose not to. This choice gave him some form of empowerment, the distortion, a sense of calm.

       The first rains would always make him daydream, lost in thought. A lot of memory signals would throw him into thought, for he was a self absorbed, mostly silent individual. But there was something so much more special about these August rains. Just as is their periodic nature, they never failed to make him wonder if Allah truly had a plan for all his children. That he moved because he thought himself to move or that really a higher power had put that thought in his head after all. Since that very first day he saw her walking down the street, drenched to her bones, shivering like a new born baby placed on a cold tray, his mind was thrown into turmoil with questions regarding destiny and free will. And for a fifteen year old to have such an epiphany, being no joke, he remembered those first rains of 1994 very clearly.

    “Ali! Ali Hassan! Are you listening to me?” she shouted over the battering of the rains, the woman who sat in the driver’s seat. How long had it been since he had forgotten that tonight, he had company. He gave her a hard look.  Her lips were blood red, just like the one-piece skirt she was wearing. She wore a shimmering pearl necklace, an obvious fake. The thin silver bracelets around her left hand jangled as she tugged onto the black jacket she was wearing. In fact, he looked at her for quite some time before he decided to answer. Her face was pleasantly triangular with a sharp jaw line but soft features. This lovely young woman had crossed all of the T’s and dotted all the I’s. She proceeded to leaning forward to pick up her glass from on the dashboard. “Where are you?” she asked, halting before taking the last sip of some cheap vodka. Her lush black hair were still damp from the bath and from where he sat, she wore the light from the streetlamp like a gold, wiry crown. He didn’t realize when she pivoted herself to face him and extended a hand. Smirking, she snapped her fingers. The bangles jangled again. This brought Ali back from his daze. As social norm would have him behave in certain manners when faced with certain situations portraying him self as an average, sensible nice guy, he responded with a smile.

                                                 “ I was looking at you.”

          She smiled back. But it was a distant smile, frozen in time where innocence had left it. Ali was okay with that. He cared more for the prospects the night had laid for the most primitive of his desires than the woman itself. ‘Everyone has an animal in them’ he thought. That thought gave him reassurance.