We step into a white, rickety-looking Mercedes. And I love that it doesn’t look any better than it does. Our driver is an old man with a thick, silver mustache and 1.5 thumbs. It’s clear from the start that he won’t be talking much, but so won’t you and I.
The silence is plenty. The space between us charged with an old friendship and the anticipation of a recently admitted romantic love. Yeah, we both know why we’re sitting together in the back of a car.
The ride that follows will take about three hours. And yet, I’ll remember the journey in three flashes, a few rays of orange, light, and dust, to which my memory seems to have added Stings’ “Desert Rose” as the soundtrack.
“I dream of rain // I dream of gardens in the desert sand
Blurred pyramids of oranges–whoosh.
We move our hands in micro gestures towards the other. Tens of minutes pass. The tension so tangible, that when about to touch, it seems we’ve left our hands no choice but to give in and lock.
“I wake in vain // I dream of love as time runs through my hand
Lantern lighting traces our path.
My head is back. We’re flying meters over land. Going further, faster. Drifting towards one of our possible lives.
“I dream of rain // I lift my gaze to empty skies above
Passing clouds of dust collide.
We stop. We continue. Wait, how did we manage to turn this shy? We arrive.
Seven years later. Here you still sit next to me, lost in your universe, a moment after present in mine. A thousand possible lives, a thousand rides in the backs of cabs later, that arrow of adoration, shot from the turn of your look, still wakes the dragon in my heart.