The night of Tangier started its noisy silence. He rested his chin on his palm while he was looking at the sleepy lights of the port. He always loved these lights since he was a kid when he used to look at them from the window of his bedroom. He used to like that feeling that there were people working hard while others are deep asleep. There were people who just came on a ship from a different world to his own.
When his mother passed away three years ago, the landlord asked him to leave because he needed to sell the apartment. He was then sad and desperate. He had no power for any oral or legal arguments. Nevertheless, he was aware that he was enjoying a position of strength as long as he was living in the apartment and rejecting to leave it willingly. After negotiations that lasted for some hours, he agreed to leave the apartment where he cried for the first time when was born in exchange for living in the tiny apartment near the rooftop rent free for three years. It was too difficult, but he chose peace of mind over conflicts. He knew that the two windows of his new apartment would overlook the port; this was sufficient for him.
The sound of a drop of water falling in a bucket of water.
He turned to the screen and found the message box flickering and temptingly inviting him to come. He gave Tangier and its port a last look as an expression of apology and adjusted his seating position before his virtual blueness.
He felt his body going numb. His ears turned red and his left hand started to shake as it always did when he felt nervous. He did dread this moment! Two months they spent chatting on daily basis and exchanging ideas. Their virtual relationship grew at an acceptable pace. On the positive side, she was able to guess what was on his mind before he attempted at writing anything, and she was many times able to know his feelings. He did not deny that he admired her. To be more accurate, he liked the image he imagined. His situation was similar to how a Russian man of letters described the state of mind of a teenager, “I do not really know what I like, but I like it very much”.
He was aware that in real life joking never existed in such things. A rendezvous could lead to a massive shock and an entire collapse of that beautiful image that he admired. He acknowledged that he was coward to some extent. Ever since he became addicted to this blueness of Facebook, he found face-to-face interaction difficult in many instances, whereas he was like a supreme master in his e-world.
He was lucky because she had sent him her photo. Asking for a rendezvous meant that she was not lying about the whole thing and that Huda in the photo was the real person he was going to meet. Nevertheless, he was afraid the virtual photo would be tarnished in his mind—her photo in his heart rather than her physical appearance.
He could not find an answer. He was actually trying to maneuver.
She did not wait for his answer. She logged out as if concluding the discussion. She hinted earlier about having his phone number, but he declined to give it in a witty way. The truth was that she ‘was asking’ for the rendezvous, but now she ‘is waiting’ for it leaving the whole matter at his hands.
He remained fixed in his position staring at the mouse cursor. It was flickering as if his own shaking was transmitted to it. Meanwhile, a far, melodious voice was singing,
“Lonely lonely Monday morning
And I didn't have no company
Alright, alright”
He looked from the window and saw an African person from the sub-Sahara sitting on the threshold of the building and swinging his head while singing.
His voice was indeed touching accompanied with a noticeable sadness. He did not notice it when a tear fell from his eye. “You’re ‘lonely’, my friend. I too wanted to be ‘lonely’, but this loneliness is apparently going to end tomorrow. It’ll be Monday, too”.