The Surrogates; Extract (2)

MY MOM FED me “the Cranberries syndrome”. As a little girl, I remember late-night insomnia, my father fast asleep, Noor a baby girl – barely over six years old – and the relaxed sound of my mother’s humming, painting in the dark with some Cranberry song in the background.

“Ferry,” she’d scold in her drawling, sweet tone, “why are you out of bed? It’s a school night!”

Yet, her displeasure would soon falter, allowing me in a minute to share her late-night creative incursions. As I sat at the couch opposite her easel, sipping hot, sweetened milk from a music-playing mug – my favorite mug – I’d think I’m the luckiest daughter in the world. And indeed I was lucky, for I was the daughter of the unique Dina Maghawry. Continue reading

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The ride

“But, don’t you think it’s a bit absurd that the color’s all you care about?” He asks as his right hand gracefully circles the steering wheel, the palm slowly enjoying the friction of leather against it. The way his veins stick out while he’s driving always turns me on; and that’s only focusing on his hands while excluding everything else.

“Shallow much?” I ask with a smile, trying to turn my attention to his face instead.

His smile is the ever most conquering; silencing me with finality.

The road is clear ahead of us; I can sleep if I want to.

“Don’t you even dare!” He shouts as soon as a yawn escapes my mouth. And I’m too disappointed he read my mind yet again. Continue reading