“It’s not going to end well,” he said after a lengthy silence.
“Something’s coming, something big. He’ll be on the opposite side. I can feel it.” He looked at me, expecting some sort of reaction.
“Feel it? Really? Doesn’t that sound a bit…histrionic?” I regretted the words even as they floated between us.
The contempt drew its way across his face in deep creases. “What would you know,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “About anything at all?”
The burning embers atop the shisha had breathed their last as Youssef walked back outside. I took a few fruitless puffs before resigning myself to a sleepless night amidst the earsplitting snores of Amm Attia in his wicker chair.
*****************************************************
I awoke with searing fingers tapping at my skull; a sign that I had not smoked hash in too long. The thick smog of the drugs had not yet evaporated and I struggled to breathe for a moment before fumbling in the shuttered darkness until I found my glasses and my phone. The harsh white light of the screen was almost unbearable, but the ten or so unread text messages had an irresistible pull. My shiny new iPhone was a blank slate, so I had to guess who had sent which message.
Up and at ‘em, faggot was the first message displayed. The perfect English, the slur so utterly devoid of any actual homophobia. It reeked of the anarchy personified that was my best friend. I saved the number to my contacts and cycled through his four other texts, all colorful variations on the same central theme.