sweat drips down my face, the floor swims beneath me and smoke ribbons out of my mouth and nose. mid-summer in an Arabic bar with some ******* touching the dancer all over and saying "*******" over and over again.
he stares at her hips.
the mirror is on one side of me, and one half of a pair of speakers is beside my ear. it's gigantic.
it blares music that my friend tells me is from some new Bollywood movie. two hands grab mine and i'm up. one link in a circle, dancing a Middle-Eastern two-step that's only slightly familiar.
faces come in and out of my line of sight. i recognize none and feel as if i'm in a Salman Rushdie novel. maybe i'm Haroun, in a new place with a blue genie saving a sea of stories, a princess, a land, and my father. but then again, maybe not.
i would never save my father.
i spin, spin, spin until i can't see straight.
i wake the next morning on the belly dancers couch. my friends are having coffee with her and discussing whether or not to take me to the hospital.
Nadia found some blow in my pocket and flushed it down the toilet. she found *** in the other and put it back.
they had decided to let me sleep and from then on call me "American Dream."