Pygmalion...

Sitting in Dido’s of Zamalek, I ordered spaghetti then I had to accept a coke without a cup full of ice cubes. I put down my mobile and Marlboros, looked at girls, at couples around. The waiter came and wondered if I could accept sharing a table with another guest. “For Sure!” I said.

You are eating in silence, wandering your eyes around in silence, smiling to the polite guest in silence.

Silence.

When you spoke, it was like nonsense. When the polite polite guest came to an end, leaving the restaurant, he asked for your name.

You are smiling again mentioning it. That’s real nonsense, you thought. He spelled out his name, shoke hands, walked away.

It was funny, because you remembered a paragraph from your own novel. It talks about a pianist talking to a foreign guy. Ali—that polite polite guy never lived in Egypt with an Egyptian parents—could be counted as a foreigner too.

I was bewildered and bewildered I was. I told myself to quit being that creature I’ve known, simply, you must quit being bewildered when you'd realize that God has ripped her off your own books. All those females you'd draw on your blank pages. all those beloved nightmares, all those strange regular souls are here. she's here, with that smile, like an ancient doom won't leave your soul. You must quit being bewildered, and may God help you if the truth is you to remain bewildered, or to be hammered.

It’s funny, because you’d never asked to be that form of Pygmalion.

You resist calling her when you glance at the blanked, cold cell phone’s screen. You ignore a well aimed look from a girl sitting there, she’s with friends anyway. You too came to an end.

You leave tips. You take your jacket off the chair’s back. You throw an empty gaze at the girl’s face. You leave.

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Painting: Pygmalion by Sir Edward Brune- Jones.