I slowly take another sip of my cinnamon latte, carefully drawing a half-fake inviting smile on my face. The sort of smile that would invite whoever is sitting across the table to open that little subject that’s clearly on their mind. I always had it in me to tell when she was trying to find a good moment to say that little thing she is trying to say. It made her look cute in a way. Only this time I had a frighteningly good idea of what was coming. I sit back and let her go with it.
I calmly examine the blue eyes and light brown locks as the lips start their difficult translation job. “I have been thinking… and I wanted to talk to you about… you know, how things have been in general… I mean, the way you and I, I mean us, the way things have been between us… “
Another cinnamon latte sip. I let the words flow by me as my mind traces forward in anticipation for the punch line. The one word that is waiting for its turn to lead through all the other meaningless introduction phrases. I can somehow tell what she is about to say. I remember: Birds can mysteriously feel an earthquake coming long before it hits. And I think: Halim can mysteriously feel a tornado long before it touches down ontop of a corner Starbucks table between his seat and the blue eyes looking him from the other seat.
I remember: How fun it was to translate my favorite Lebanese songs for her. Her literature-savvy facial expression as I go through it verse by verse, guiding her wings as she soars along with the poetry. How you could almost see the Lebanese poet’s state of mind reflected inside her eyes as she follows through his words translated by a novice like me. The satisfaction in her expression as I reach the punch line. The contentment as she ponders over hidden beauty in the meaning. And I remember: Many first kisses, and long bus rides as she leans over my shoulder and drift to sleep to leave me watch the locks of brown hair draw wavy symbols over the nightly bus window.
“future”. I finally hear the punch line. As I drift into thought I always keep my ears screening for the right word to snap me back to reality. I meet her look in an obvious gesture to repeat what she just said.
“We need to talk about the future”
I remember: The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their own dreams. And I think: If we cannot own the dreams then how can we have claim over the future?
I remember: A little teenager lost in an airport. Pacing onwards, armed with a little backpack against myriads of gates and signs and check points. Looking for a sign that carries the future’s name on it. Looking for “Ottawa” between “Paris”, “Amsterdam”, “Frankfurt”, “Abu-Dhabi”, and many, many, many others. I remember: A young kid proud of just learning how to dive head-first. Showing off his new skills to his cousins and siblings. And I remember: Music flowing off a violin and a bow, held by a little guy in a blue shirt, with a whole orchestra following his lead. Vivaldi humming to the theme in his grave.
“I said we need to talk about the future”
Why are people so obsessed with the future? Why doesn’t anybody seem to realize that the future will never really come? I remember: A long walk along the dark snowy path of a forest in Ottawa. Two silhouettes making their way inwards in the dark, deeper and deeper into the forest, the blonde long hair whispering ancient Russian hymns about the future. And I remember them retiring to the tent at the end of the night. The bright stars blinking through the light fabric of the tent. As the Russian princess tells tales of ancient gods. And I remember: Russian good-morning kisses from between the brown fluffly pillows. Pleads to call-in-sick and stay a little longer in bed. The warm lazy sun drawing spots over two young bodies wrapped in sheets and magic. I wonder: what would the future be like if we were to break the future’s spell over us?
“… the future …. “
I wonder: What keeps these million doves locked inside the blue eyes across from me? What if they were to break free and flap around this Starbucks, drowning the whole place into white beauty? Why is THAT an unlikely future? Just what is it about today that gives us the right to claim our tomorrow?
I remember: A boat cruise around the Statue of Liberty. A train ride from Paris to Brussels. A cruise in a convertible roadster along the Ottawa river, rain falling down as the young driver speeds through the windy road. A plane crossing the Atlantic yet another time. A walk along the Victorian streets of Old Montreal, heavy snowfall lighting up the night city. A clueless college student zooming past traffic with his bicycle in hope to make it to class on time. My mind keeps hopping. Back, back, back, further down into the past.
I remember: Five chocolate-brown fingers wrapping around mine for a first time, sending shivers into two young hearts that are only guilty of not knowing enough. “Khaleek hone”. The future, uncharted as ever, can only stare you in the face if you allow it to. If you confront it. I wonder: If you fear the future then does the future even exist? “Khaleek ma3ay”. Chocolate-brown is the face of the past. Blue stares back from across the table. The past and the future always like to play their little games with me. I travel back: A little kid shivering on a filthy wooden bench, stuck to the corner of a little classroom. “Abu-Hmeidan answer the question. On the blackboard”. I wonder: what does a little kid know about his future? What is it that he might hope to foresee, between the scores of flights and trains and buses, and cities, and faces, and kisses, and letters, and emails, and voice messages, and longings, and disappointments, and long nights spent staring at the stars from inside a blue tent complete with blonde flocks and Russian wisdom? And I wonder: Are we as hopelessly devoted to the future today as we were as young clueless kids? Is there no way to break the spell?
“Let’s talk about the future Halim, please”
I try to draw a face for her: The Future. This mysterious princess sought by all, yet known to none. All I can see is blue eyes. My mind quickly gives her blonde hair, and chocolate-brown skin. She grins back at me. The Future knows she doesn’t belong in my world any more than I belong in hers.
I can almost feel Robert Frost laughing at me:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
Took the one less traveled by.
I remember: An intelligent machine should be able to accurately predict the future turnout of events to a practically sufficient degree of certainty. And I can almost hear Einstein: I never think of the future. It comes soon enough.
I close my eyes as hard as I can. I try to imagine it: The future is ours baby. It will always be this way. I try harder: Two gray-haired lovers, surrounded by blue-eyed children around dinner table. Family photos on the wall. College certificate of the firstborn ontop of the TV. I can almost feel it: The sweet aftertaste of homemade coffee in a little cottage in the south of France. Memories of a life well lived lying around in every corner. Two old lovers retiring in peace. The future has finally become the past. I close my eyes tighter to cling to it, but it had already gone.
I try:
The future is ours.
You are the future.
Let’s take hold on the future.
What would you like the future to be?
The future...
The future…
Just Say it!
No words come out. Frost is now laughing hysterically. I can feel shades of blue departing in the distance. Rule Number 3. Rule Number 3. I stand up, ever so calmly. A light kiss hits an unexpecting forehead. Blue eyes stare in anticipation. The words finally come out as I make my way to the door. “The future has already passed us by”.
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