“You know this is unthinkable, right?”

            “And yet you’d be amazed by how much I think about it.”

            Farah’s face starting puffing up in anger, although I suppose the biting wind and bitter cold could easily have stabbed into her red cheeks as well. In a warmer place like Vancouver or Toronto, a Muslim woman could easily be spotted in the half-naked crowd. In Gatineau during the early brunt of winter, any number of scantily clad girls would have traded their California trends for a good niqab. Farah’s garments weren’t so severe, and her face was paying the price.

            “You know what I mean, Beni.

            “I think that it’s odd for an Iranian girl in a country run by Israel-lauding sexists to worry about my adjustment to society.”

            “But you can probably agree that this wouldn’t help. I mean, come on, Beni. It’s not natural to date a woman more than twice your age.”

            “Your own Muhammad the Prophet did it.”

            “First off, he’s not my Muhammad the Prophet, he’s everyone’s. Secondly, he was twenty-five and she has forty. You are sixteen, Beni, and Allah knows how old this Claudine is. She could be your long lost French grandmother for all you know.”

            “Does it really matter?”

            Farah was exacerbated. “Yeah, it really freaking matters, Beni! Now, trust me, I can empathize with your plight. You’ve just been stood up by someone you had deep feelings for. Heck, maybe you loved her. Who really knows with you? Maybe you’re feeling like you’re not as virile as you thought, not quite the caliph you once were but really just more of the caliph’s librarian or something equally dull. Now, as much as you tell yourself this isn’t true, you’ve seen more books in your life than sultan’s harems, so eventually this agonizing lie becomes believable. Now comes along this older woman who gives you a glimpse of your throne and although Maria stole the chance for you to be a caliph, she can still make you a prince. I understand, I do, Beni. But this is your bounce-back,” she snapped her fingers, looking for the word, “your rebound. It’s all fool’s gold and false prophets, Beni, nothing more.”

            I looked at her like with more contempt than I thought my face could bear. “I can’t believe you could get it so wrong, Farah.”

            “Then help me to get it right, Beni. Allow me the chance to catch your hand before you fall into this abyss.” Her eyes were pleading, almost as if she were one asking for assistance instead of handing it out.

            “You know, poetry can only get you so far, Farah.”

            “Fine, I’ll condense it for you. What do you see in her, Beni? Why would you go about living such a ridiculous lie for the company of one woman?”

            I held my head down, not exactly in shame, but in the way one does to avoid having to face the gravity of a situation. “I don’t know precisely. I mean, I can’t pinpoint anything with absolute certainty, it’s simply the idea of her, the thought of being with her that makes my life seem somehow more meaningful, in some way complete. Maybe it’s just because I’ve spent my entire life waiting to be somebody and she already accepts that I am. I’m not that guy that will accomplish something to her, but someone who has accomplished. I’m someone who crossed the train tracks, who climbed the mountains, who jumped the hurdles and still found success. I’m not just that leach, that risky investment that may or may not pan out. I’m not some carbon emitting meat bag who gives my parents a heart attack when they realize my generation will rule the world someday. I’m not somebody who has to call home when I’m out late or ask to drive the car to a friend’s house on the weekend. With her, I’m somebody and without her, I’m just another number on a social security card.”

            “But she’s more than twice your age, Beni!”

            “And is that how we measure people nowadays, Farah? Is a date on a birth certificate what separates the good and the bad? Is that how far we’ve fallen?”

            She shook her head in frustration. “You’re overreacting.”

            “Am I?”

            She lifted her hijab to cover against the wind and picked up her pace, obviously trying to leave me behind. Not to be ousted so quickly, I sped up behind her, my voice imploring her to pay attention, to listen, to empathize with my situation.

“Surely you must be able to understand it, Farah. My life is nothing but bitter agony, a pain just waiting to escape from my chest at any moment. I was born aware, Farah, with a head full of ideas. My mind was stuffed to over capacity with policies and laws just waiting to be released. But they could never come to fruition. We’re not human beings, Farah, we’re just children; incapable of self-government, self-determination, self-thought. Do you know what it feels like to have the world condescend you, to have the solutions to every problem lying behind the impregnable walls of age? What could I know? What could I do? What could I possibly contribute, Beni Mussini, the infant? We live in a world that would force Einstein to teach second grade math, Picasso to become a face painter and Trudeau to write Social textbooks just to keep up appearances. Why? Because you can’t just be brilliant, Farah, you have to look the part too. The work is nothing, the man is everything. Do you think FDR would have been elected if his wheelchair got on TV? God, no! What about JFK and his mistresses? You’ve got to be kidding me! John A. MacDonald and his inebriation? Christ, no! We live in an age dominated by superficialities and instead of combatting them like I am, you are scrubbing the brains of anyone would dare think differently.”

            I could see in her eyes that the message was finally getting through to her so I decided on the final push. “She listens to me, Farah. She doesn’t tell me that I know nothing about the real world when I offer an opinion. She doesn’t say that I’ll change my mind about tax reform when I start earning a salary. She doesn’t believe that there is anything motivating what I say other than the plain and simple truth. Because she doesn’t know one simple thing about me, she allows herself to know absolutely everything else. She listens, Farah.”

            We had reached the end of the journey and Farah’s house now loomed ahead of us like a hulking gargoyle, vigilant for a chance to strike. Farah stopped suddenly and turned to face me. Soft, colourless tears burned down from her eyes and steam lifted from them into the brisk winter air. I knew my words had touched her, although back then I didn’t quite understand in what way. I only saw from the angle of Claudine and everything else was a blur. That was when Farah brought the camera back into focus and I started to get that first sense of doubt deep in the bottom of my gut.

            “She’s not the only one that listens to you, Beni,” she croaked from her tear stricken throat. Before I had time to react, she gyrated again and left me standing on the cold, cement sidewalk, staring at the dying trees and frozen leaves, alone.