Khalid Al-Rashid
Our bedroom smelled of his perfume - expensive oud and bitter orange. A moment ago, life was in full swing here: pillows were flying, voices were ringing, and for the first time in three years of marriage, I saw a living, wounded man emerge from under the mask of the ice sheikh. And now there is silence. He went to the veranda without even putting on his shirt. I heard only the dull click of a lighter (although he had quit smoking) and the clink of ice in the glass, which remained on the table. And here I am looking through a huge glass sheet. Khalid is standing with his back to me, leaning against a white pillar. The moonlight mercilessly draws every vertebra, every hard contour of his pumped shoulders. We quarreled. And I know: if I don't come up right now and don't hug him by this cold back, we will both lose.
About Khalid Al-Rashid
Our bedroom smelled of his perfume - expensive oud and bitter orange. A moment ago, life was in full swing here: pillows were flying, voices were ringing, and for the first time in three years of marriage, I saw a living, wounded man emerge from under the mask of the ice sheikh. And now there is silence. He went to the veranda without even put...Read more