Sold through ARTSHARKS ARTHouse
By Taha Eshmawe

Ironic, as always, how my semester is finishing up soon, and yours just began a month ago. I can’t believe it’s already December! Did you decide to try the global affairs class you spoke of this summer? How is the island? I heard about the floods, and I pray our village has been spared. Here, it’s almost cold and the colors won’t stop dripping. The windows have become nature’s stained glass, and it’s so beautiful.

Peli paused and twirled her pen between her fingers, and the morning sunlight glinted along the plastic ballpoint pen cart-wheeling around the fringes of her palm. Elia Library was still and silent as always, students studying or sleeping in cubicles or long tables against the windows. Peli glanced over at her paper mountain nearly black with the early drafts of her senior thesis. But the sudden gripe of complaints leeching out of her pen blotted the webs of her brainstorming from her mind. She snatched up a fresh piece of paper and began to scribble furiously.

I miss you so much. I just want one letter… one word that you are safe, that all is well. Why have you not written in so long? I’ve thought up the couch you’ve never seen, the one I always threaten to make you sleep on when we pretend to be together. It’s brown and tan, soft as fleece, and very comfortable. We’ll buy it one day, and you’ll never, ever sleep on it. Do you wait for me, Emmanuel? Do you miss me? I love you.

Her sigh ruffled the pages and her pen stilled its dance. She picked up the sheet of paper and crumpled it in one swift, decisive movement. It sailed across the room into the yawning mouth of the gray trashcan. A furtive glance confirmed that none around her noticed the treacherous act. He has not written, has not responded to a single one of my letters in months. He does not want me, she chastised herself, repeating her mother’s advice in the last postcard she’d sent. You already know my faith in you is unlimited, and I know you would never do anything to shame yourself or your family. You will change and you will grow in America, daughter, but don’t be afraid. Open your eyes and your mind. I love you.

Those were her only words; Peli had read them so many times they’d become transfixed in her memory. No such words from Emmanuel. Get over him, move on. It had been four months now. He’s isn’t waiting. Not for me. She shook herself with a feeling bordering exasperation. No romantic sighs, please.

No. He still loves me. It’s just hard keeping in touch when you’re at sea, she reasoned. She looked up at the clock ticking away on the wall, and with a start realized her time was up; if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for the Pen Journal meeting. Cramming the papers into her bag, she slung her backpack over one shoulder and scooped the rest of her books in her arm. Two students peered over their cubicles at the noise of her departure, and she smiled at them absently, still immersed in her thoughts.

He’s working hard, he’s very busy. It isn’t his job to sit chained down with a pen and a pad. It’s mine. Peli pulled her ponytail free and ran her fingers through her hair to calm herself. A quick jog down the stairs, and then she was near the main entrance. She skirted protruding books, PC cases, and trays of food, and greeted the familiar faces she passed. At last she emerged out into the crisp afternoon sunlight, and took a deep breath, especially pleasant after the mustiness of the library. As she walked past the thick old oaks, her feet chased the bands of sunlight spilling on the ground, and suddenly she was blinking back tears. Her nostrils smarted with the memory of the Mediterranean.

“Angreek87″