not your laundry girl/place

You loved watching my mama enjoying the couscous she made herself and sucking on her fingers when she was done eating. I looked at you that day and knew you wanted to do a project on her and couscous and other strange but amusing oriental stuff. I drove mum home and went back to my place where you stood studying the patterns the red sauce left on the tablecloth and told you no, you can not do that to my mum. You said why and I said it was cultural appropriation and you said fuck you and got back to you ex, Zohra.


When we went out that night, we decided that nothing would bring us joy more than a bitter-sweet cocktail in our favourite rooftop bar. The bar was closed and we sucked at making cocktails.
You drove, I laughed all the way home and, when you pulled over, you looked at me and said: “Darling I’m gonna sleep at my mama’s.”
I did not know where your mama’s place was and I never knew.


The first of August, I met you at a beach and instantly said how amusing your swimming suit was. Although you looked puzzled, you shook my hand longer than usual and spent the next week at my place. You left a toothbrush and some fake brunette hair and your swimming suit and sand in my bed.


You said on Facebook that you would only consent to see me if it was at a neutral place. We spent four days deciding which place this would be and ended-up picking a random park. You were a bit drunk and I was a bit pissed off. You told me about your father and I took out my nurse supplies. You said you didn’t want to go home and I asked why and you said your ex was there. We went to my place and you spent the night in the bathroom and never came back to clean it.


I was obsessed with your smile and would take pictures of you whenever it popped on your face. All the pictures looked experimental because you were too shy and tried to hide every time I took my phone out of my pocket. Even when you were not smiling. You said one day the pictures were nice and would make a great theme for a contemporary exposition. You said another day that, sometimes, you would touch yourself thinking about how obsessed with your smile I was.
I did not want to take pictures when we hosted that event of yours at my place and you smiled at me a lot and I felt weird and you said after everyone had left that I was not supportive and left as well.


I was obsessed with the grain of your skin and the grain of your voice and everything you did with your hands. We met only once and, of course, being obsessed with your hands did not imply anything sexual. You were nice, my place was nice, the coffee was nice, the sunset was nice, goodbyes were nice and that’s it.
It will take time for the obsession to fade away but hey, it was nice.


You listened to me telling you all these stories with a smile on your face and said you really appreciate the fact that you could not guess the gender of all these my-place-leavers fuckers. You said you tried at first but then figured it would be a good exercise not to. You looked around and wondered how someone could leave such a nice place. I said you would do the same and you smiled again and replied: “Darling, I’m leaving tomorrow for Paris. Of course I would do the same.”

I moved since we last met. You called me and asked if I received your letter. I did not, it was addressed to my old place. You said it was a love letter and I laughed and laughed and laughed.


@ Jamal Saleh
@ Jamal Saleh – No love & no watermelon

4 commentaires sur « not your laundry girl/place »

  1. Au moins maintenant, ton prénom prend tout son sens… grec. Tu m’as manqué. Signé, un connard d’ami.

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