Love is delicious like fear—fear of the jinn who hide in mountain bends on a rural night. A fear that tickles you and pulls you away from the monotony of the known, making you want to stay on its edges and weave dreams from there. But you grew up a little and dared a lot against the jinn’s myths and your grandmother’s warnings. You went to their mountainous death in the midst of the night, and you didn’t see the jinn. You became brave and dry from dreams.
I don’t want to get closer to that jinni. I want her to remain a dream that my quiet days tremble for, a legend to which I add mystery and beauty, just like the village women add spices to ancient tales. I will cling to my jinni like a climbing tree. I don’t want the day to come when her name is mentioned and my stomach doesn’t churn—that would be a death announcement.