Listen to me as one listens to the rain.

—

The early autumn sun is slowly slipping down in the sky. The beach sand is warm under his bare feet and the air is cool with an exotic scent in it. He inhales deeply.

She stands close to the shore as the waves come and go, staring out at the distant horizon. Something is on her mind. Something always is.

He walks towards her, quietly coming to stand behind her. She's oblivious to his presence until he places his hands on her waist, and she stiffens before relaxing to his touch.

"What are you thinking of, habibi?"

She tilts her head to look at him. "A lot of things."

"Do these things include me somewhere?"

"They do."

"Entertain me with your thoughts then."

She chuckles lightly, trying to step away from him, but he quickly puts his arms around her, embracing her. She turns around to face him, draping her arms around his shoulders. Their faces lock in a close angle.

"I was thinking of the colors I like," she tells him.

"What are they?"

"I like the vermillion shades of sky at dusk, and blood red and of deep blue ocean." She tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape and he grins. "I like the color of lavender fields, winter nights, and fiery dawns. But most of all," she lifts her head so their lips are almost touching, "I like the color of lighting bolts and your brilliant eyes."

He hugs her closer to himself so as to feel her heart beating against his own chest. He tucks back a strand of her hair, resting his forehead against hers.

"And you know what I like?" he asks her.

"What?" she asks back in a whisper.

"I like the color of your words, Leyla."

His eyes snap open and the images in his head are washed away as if water being sprayed on a wet painting. He urgently tries to grasp what little he can, but only one word makes sense:

Leyla.

Did he just dream about her? But then why are there lingering feelings associated to it? As if a lost memory being recalled. He frowns deeply, turning to look at the lamp laying on his side table, the crescent moon shape glowing brightly. The wind-chime chimes outside his window and gets his attention. Everything just reminds him of her.

"Damnation," he curses out loud and tugs at his bangs, his sleep totally gone now. It cannot be.

He knows they're something more. What she told him that morning in the café only proved his doubts. But he still has no title for their relationship. He couldn't have an affair with her. No, he's no such man. But what did they have then?

"Why must you bother my thoughts like this, habibi."

A knock at the door interrupts his musings. Knowing it to be Waleed, he grants him permission to come in.

The butler walks into the room and tips his head respectfully. "Good morning, your lordship."

"Good morning, Waleed."

A look of surprise crosses his servant's features at receiving an actual response from his master instead of the occasional grunting or nods of acknowledgment. The things Leyla will make him do.

Burq clears his throat awkwardly. "Help me freshen up and then go serve the breakfast. The weather is going to be bad today and I want to get over with my doctor's appointment as early as possible."

"As you please, my lord."

As Waleed helps him with his everyday routine, Burq cannot keep himself from thinking of the old days, when he was a child— when Waleed was a child too.

Back then, Waleed and him were friends, including Raad; they grew up playing together. He has no recollection of how things changed— how he changed. How from being friends, his relationship with Waleed became that of a lord and his servant. And that is how he has kept his childhood friend for so long— just as a mere servant.

Truthfully, even though he has always sought company, he has been lonely all along, losing also the only two true friends he ever had: Raad and Waleed.

His isolation has destroyed him. His pride has destroyed him, as Leyla likes to name it.

"Waleed?" he calls to him as he serves him breakfast at the table and begins to leave.

"Yes, my lord?"

Burq fists his hands before unclenching them and flattening his palms against his thighs. He cannot find proper words to say what's on his mind.

When his silence stretches too long, Waleed speaks to get his attention, "Your lordship?"

Burq looks at him.

"Do you want something with me, my lord?"

"I do." Burq gesture towards the empty chair at the table. "Sit here, Waleed. I want you to eat with me."

This time, Waleed's earthly brown eyes fill with utter shock, as if his master has somehow grown two heads. Burq feels uncomfortable under his stunned gaze.

"Me, my lord?" Waleed asks in disbelief.

"Yes, you," Burq states firmly.

"But how can I?"

"Why can't you?"

"I..." he's flabbergasted.

Burq nods towards the chair again. "Sit down."

Waleed eyes him in confusion, still lost, but does as he's asked to.

"I'm not possessed by demons, Waleed. You can stop looking at me that way. You're making me uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry, my lord," he apologizes, glancing away. "It's just... new."

"It's not new. We used to eat together before, have you forgotten?"

"I remember. But it was different back then."

Burq raises an eyebrow curiously, assessing the man sitting in front of him. "Pray tell, how so?"

Waleed nervously swallows. "We were kids back then. We were friends," he says the last part mostly to himself, but Burq doesn't miss it.

"And now?"

"Now you're my lord."

Burq folds his arms on the table and leans forward. He fixes Waleed's eyes purposefully, meaningfully. "Then will it be to much to ask for to be my friend again, Waleed?"

➳

The rain is pouring down heavily again with loud thunder and occasional lightning. The weather is fierce, the rain drops hitting the ground with great force. He watches the mad storm through the glass wall of his living room, sitting in his wheelchair. The poetry book lays open on his lap but his thoughts are elsewhere— somewhere far.

After so long, he feels somewhat at peace.

He feels happy.

Smiling to himself, he looks down at the book, tracing the edge of the page with his ring finger.

"My lover asks me," he reads, "What is the difference between me and the sky?"

He falls silent, staring at the words now, until he hears her voice behind him.

"The difference, my love," she completes for him, "Is that when you laugh, I forget about the sky."

He looks at her, and she walks towards him, smiling. "Leyla."

"You're reading Nizar Qabbani," she simply states.

"I like to read poetry in bad weathers, remember?"

Her smile broadens. "I do."

"You like poetry?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes is good enough, habibi." He smiles back at her. "Would you mind reading to me from the book? My glasses are of no use now. I think I need to change my number."

Her eyes soften instantly. "I would love to, Burq."

They move towards the couches and he takes off his glasses, placing them on the coffee table. "Help me lie down on the couch, Leyla. My back hurts from sitting up for too long."

Leyla assists him in lying down on the couch, placing a pillow beneath his head. She settles on the one close to him.

"Waleed told me you didn't have lunch again. May I ask why?"

"I wasn't hungry," he answers.

"Reason?"

"That's the reason, habibi. I really wasn't hungry."

Leyla reaches out to brush back his bangs from his eyes, running her fingers through his hair. Her touch on his scalp feels good.

"My sister is home," she tells him. "That's why I couldn't come earlier. I only get to spend time with her during the vacations, so I don't want to miss it."

"I thought it was because of the weather."

"Well, the weather contributed."

Burq tilts his head to look at her. "So, it's just you and your sister with the kid?"

"Ah, the kid is my nephew. His name is Mustafa," she tells him fondly. "I live with my sister-in-law. My sister studies in Auckland, as I told you before, and comes home for holidays."

The kid is her nephew. He laughs at himself mentally for making ridiculous assumptions. How so foolish of him.

"Your sister-in-law as in your brother's wife?" he inquires.

"Yes."

"Then what about your brother?"

He watches a flicker of conflict seize her expression before she masks it. "He's no more," she answers him calmly.

Suddenly, he regrets getting into family discussion with her.

"I'm sorry."

She just dismisses it with another smile and stands up. "I'll get you dinner ready."

He quickly clutches her wrist. "I've already asked Waleed to do that."

The stunned look on her face has him embarrassed. Does everyone see him as such a beast? He frowns.

"Don't judge me, habibi."

"I'm just surprised."

"Doesn't look like a good surprise."

Leyla sits back down. "It's a pleasant surprise."

Burq meets her gaze firmly. "But I've a condition."

She chuckles, failing to hide her amusement. "Of course."

"You'll still come to see me often, if not everyday?"

Her eyes turn tender at his request. "Of course," she repeats.

He breathes satisfactorily. "Now read me poetry, habibi."

She picks up the book and starts reading to him from a random page. He closes his eyes, feeling tired, and begins to lose himself to her voice. But the words of the poem make no sense to him as his mind drifts off to his dream— or memory— from last night.

I like the vermillion shades of sky at dusk.

The images are clearer now, so are her words, and he opens his eyes back.

"Leyla?" he stops her midway.

"Yes?"

"Leave the book. I want to listen to you."

"But what from me?"

"Anything. Just talk to me in poetry, but of your own."

She leans towards him, grinning. "But how does one talk in poetry?"

"One does when one is passionate about something." His lips pull up to one side. "You like colors?"

Her orbs tint with skepticism, but he feigns oblivion. "I do actually."

"Then talk to me in colors; talk to me in poetry."

She takes a few minutes before speaking, as if calculating her response. "I like the color of wilted roses and autumn leaves, of dying ambers and of faded pages of old books."

Her words now are different; she must have done so intentionally to gauge his reaction. Clever woman. He holds back his smirk. But her accent is the same. His doubts are confirmed.

"It seems to me you like the colors of death, habibi."

Leyla laughs at this, pushing back her hair over her shoulder. His eyes copy the trail of her fingers.

"But they're the colors close to gold, don't you think?"

"Is that all?"

"I also like the color of pale blue sea under lilac sky."

He hums approvingly at that. "Now this is something to like."

She goes back to reading to him from the book and running her fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes again. This time, he slowly begins to drift into sleep, until her voice calls him once more.

"Burq?"

He wants to reply, or at least makes a sound to let her know he's listening, but feels too exhausted to do so.

"It's getting late. I should get going now."

He would've protested and asked her to have dinner with him, but being suspended somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he cannot respond.

He hears her getting up and then leaning over him. "Burq?" She touches his face.

Why does her presence, her nearness, feels so soothing? Is he dreaming again?

"I forgot to tell you about my favorite colors," she speaks in a whisper, as if she's telling him a secret. "I also like the color of lighting bolts and your brilliant eyes."

And she feather kisses the corner of his lips.

Suddenly, his sleep is all gone and he has to force his eyelids not to snap open. His heartbeat becomes erratic and he's afraid she might hear the noise his heart is making. But somehow, against all odds, he manages to stay still.

After what feels like eternity when he opens his eyes again, the living room is empty and she's gone.

How so foolish of him to never consider a romantic possibility with her all along.

"So that's your truth, Leyla." He smiles.

➳

➳