‘Muscles all ribbed, one can actually count the fibers if there is enough time. Actually, time is abundant.

Demoozi has been sitting under that solitary weeping tree for seasons now; he thinks that it is the perfect place to wait for her return; since it is large, shadowy, bitter, sad with grandeur, slow in perfume infusion of the surrounding air, un-intimidating, and untouchable.

He is exposing his skin not to the light, but the shadow, trying to get that perfect coffee bean roast color and the slightly golden hue to his short fine body hair.
He sometimes conforms to the Thinker, sometimes to Kefru, and sometimes to the relatively tiny stem of a white tulip. He bends his body and merges spiritually with the white leaves and allow the bees to brush against his eyelashes with there tail tufts and rub his nostrils with their ever-searching arms. Butterflies land on the helix of his ears, slowly, comfortably waving the pollens off their wings and resting; absorbing some of his body heat.

Even his lids blink too fast to be noticed. Quick enough, not to miss any fragment of a second during which she may reappear.

Few seasons had passed, and he has been ready since years. She had walked away dragging the tail of her dark blue dress over the green grass. She did not promise she will be back. He thought she didn’t have to, she will, because he had already started getting ready.

Colors around him systematically and sequentially change, but not to the perfect shade he is seeking yet. Like his skin, not to the perfect depth.

One can draw perfect straight lines between his shoulders and his neck, his neck and his back, shoulders, and between his eyebrows; geometrical, square, no tangents.

Around his belly button, lilacs, tiny ones, had grown. That was where she had last put her lips and placed an endearing, spring like, damp, not wet, kiss.

Toes are the only constantly moving part of him, besides his heart, that is; constantly digging, then covering, small holes in the warm sand underneath. Rows of small brown ants detour his feet, grasshoppers land on his knees as relays.

Ferns with a green slender stem grows around his right loin a bit, in their journey towards the more reliable Keena tree trunk. Had they known better, they would have clung to Demoozi; he is as reliable, may be even more than the Keena.

He was always facing the other way, away from the only door in the garden wall, thus, not needing to cover any part of his body; only his back can be seen from the outside, and that is alright.’

Raheema, stepped in without knocking and girlishly called upon Demoozi, wanting to show off her new looks. He quickly looked around, but she was not who he had been awaiting. His look, wound back inside, his darks brown iridae quickly extinguished, and he turned back, to his usual self, back inside.

Not at all surprised, she walked in, into the kitchen, where Breeze was. She had noticed Breeze watching Demoozi through the kitchen window, with a down look, a steady thoughtless gaze; a gaze like that of autumn, watching the wilting of a rose, the migration of a bird.

“Well, hello, all new Raheema! so, finally you got rid of those accessory glands you had. Good for you.”

“Thank you Breeze. You are the wisest garden keeper in the whole town. I feel great, I look great.”

“To each his own”

A quick glance over his shoulder, through the window. “Unlike our friend there, looking so perfect, but feeling so hollow and incomplete.”

“Do you think she’ll ever return for him?”

“If she returns, it won’t be for him, women never do, not even mothers, and there are never look-alikes. He worshiped the idea of Ashtar in her, adopted the name of Demoozi, and loved the delusion that they will always return for each other, defeat death, and unite. She had left; into the desert, or the seashore, or may be the forest. He keeps himself ready for her. He doesn’t pay anyone or anything else any attention. I do not know what to offer him. I am nervous, and I am sad”

“He knows that you are not leaving.”

“Yes, he knows, I think”

“Would you like to have lunch together?”

“I am sorry; I had promised Hakeem to cook for him today”

“You love cooking, don’t you? And who is Hakeem?”

“A new friend that I met, I like conversing with him, he explains things to me.”

“Good for you. May be Demoozi will also enjoy the change”

“Ha… He wouldn’t even notice”

“Then let us plan something for next week”

Off she left, did not wait for an answer, did not close the doors behind her, enjoying the touch of the tantalizing red satin dress on her skin, And the clean feeling of air moving over her newly shaven scalp.

On her way out, she stared at the chiseled back of Demoozi, the nape of his neck, the contoured back of his head, all bathing in the warm rays of the noon sun and thought; “He does look like a sunflower.”


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