This would depend on how long you have been reading this blog, but I think you know by now that I write best when I write about women. I have tried before to avert such a skew in my writing style and failed. The skew has perfected itself into no return, I am afraid. It is said that ailments are dents that appear from the other side of things as shocks of ingenuity. I contest that, of course. My writing sucks lately. Anyways, let’s skip my personal issues with myself and venture into arms.
It has such imprinted itself into the inner wall of my chest, that of damsels’ tendency to seek arms to hold on to when in distress. I’m not sure which of the two beautiful rivaling aspects of this would claim victory over the other: the fact that a physical touch could ease pain, or the fact that she usually doesn’t consciously intend it.
Proof that women don’t consciously intend it:
One night I was crossing a crowded street in Cairo. Where I live, we have no traffic signs and so jaywalking is a learned art. I am used to miraculously waltz in between the variably stable lanes towards the other side of death; I do not take pride in chaos, but guy friends of mine do not posses this kind of audacity. I owe it to God’s protection that I am so far safe. So, back to the damsel of our story.
Who was a teenage girl of not more than seventeen, standing right next to me, trying to devise a crossing strategy. She was veiled, and overall quite equal to me in stature – a full grown woman to casual spectators. A blue scarf on a white top, sky blue jeans on a flat rosy converse; olive skin tone with invisible red in it – the kind you see but can’t point out; eyes that have water in them; an all lively complexion – knitted forehead by then, however. I had concluded the traces of childhood in her because the moment I stepped into the first lane, immediately mirrored by her, a car swerved in and stupefyingly closed on upon us.
In which moment, dear reader, that perfect baby of a girl took hold of my right arm. There was a very faint yelp uttered, her eyes closed, and I don’t know, I think she fancied we would miraculously fly over the road or something. I needed to move, of course, and was now riveted in front of a speeding vehicle with a scared she attached to me. I looked into her eyes, now open, designed a quick reassuring smile, one which made her yank her hands away into a self-hug and a very pink blush that cutely managed to spread all over her sheepish face. We now started to cross the other slower, safer lanes. Once we reached life, I could not trace her at all. She must have escaped awkwardness into some crowd near by.
Many similar stories take place everyday. A cousin of mine, many years older than myself, specifically asked me once to sit next to her on the couch while a horror movie was playing on TV, so that when she needs to be scared she’d find my arm to hold. At that time I think I was around sixteen myself. I was too flattered, the teenager I was.
I one time managed to get hold of a scare spider that I hanged by thread on the kitchen door handle, in close proximity to the table my parents stood by. I remember them both seeing it simultaneously; the scene proceeded as thus: dad anxiously spread his arms, a sign of deigning to attack, and Mom, in a rapid move, was behind dad and clasping his arm.
Another were a girl and her brother taking an elevator ride that decided to turn into a plummet down the building. The elevator, loose, flew down, landing on massive, thank God well designed air bags. Of course, when credits rolled, the girl was wholly attached to her brother’s arm and body.
And then we go into the beautiful realm of things. When a woman does that even in her sleep. A warm shoulder on a cold pillow at night. That’s when loneliness hurts the most, I guess.
I cherish the little things women don’t know they’re doing.