Jewaira's Boudoir

We arrived at an outdoor cafe. It was a sheesha cafe. All around me, mostly women clutched the long tapered nozzles, inhaled sickly smelling fruity tobacco and exhaled clouds of greyish white smoke into the still June air.

I was in a defensive mood. I was the only non-smoker. I was doing an internal mini-sulk because I had agreed to come to an outdoor sheesha cafe and not some cool air-conditioned upscale place in one of the new malls around town bustling with activity and excitement.

Here, Egyptian pop music blared through large speakers into the inky night. Massive air conditioners blew cool dewy air our way. We sat closest to the sea view. I stared out into the black Gulf waters, and wondered more than once at the intermittent splashes and mini waves I saw, imagining all sorts of creatures beneath the depths.

Egyptian waiters attended to our needs in a polite welcoming tone. I was still irritable though and I imagine my aura was a bit sulfurish. My lungs started to burn from the smoke around me. A gentle, barely discernible whiff of sea breeze came my way, carrying a hint of fish and salt. with it. I could hear the surf. Just barely. That’s better. My nose soon became anesthetized by the sheesha smoke and I no longer smelled it as strongly.

There were some Kuwaiti girls at a table quietly inhaling from long hoses, and by the chilled out gaze of the one facing me, I saw they were really relaxed which fazed me further.
I looked away and felt like a dragon: an irritable dragon that did not spew smoke from its nostrils.

Then my ears perked up at the conversations at the table behind me. A man and a woman spoke in an Egyptian dialect in guarded dark tones. They were discussing a woman’s infidelity. It was surreal. The woman replied in defensive curt sentences. The air was electric. I strained to hear more but the subject was left hanging as a child joined them.

I was yo-yoing between relaxing and tensing up as the sheeshah waiter came too close for comfort swinging tongs and a coal carrier. I imagined my new top getting singed as sparks flew.

I tried to put on an amicable face and make light conversation with my companion. This time however, the couple behind me started another thread of conversation which turned me nauseous. In retrospect, they probably knew I was eavesdropping.
The man said to the woman: I still haven’t digested the meal from that night!

She asked him: Haven’t you had a bowel movement?

He answered: Well not a good one.

And he went on to describe the quantity and shape of his stool.

I almost twisted around to glare at him. I pondered the the appeal of the hummus and kubba we had ordered after that.

Presently, they got up to leave, and it was with some relief that I watched them depart.

As the hour wore on, the air cleared of the smell of tobacco and the sea breeze picked up somewhat, its warm saltiness mixing with the humid air of the airconditioner. I mellowed a bit. I dipped the crusty bread into the hummus and bit delicately into the kubba and drank strong, sweet tea.

The hour was late as we walked away to the parking lot where there was some heavy chatting up going on between two girls in one car and some questionable looking guys in an adjacent car. It was blatant and unabashed.

I was relieved to get back into an air-conditioned car.