Antoine Tabet

His Story

Rain hits Hamra like a hand slapped on a table — sudden, flat, absolute. I was on the balcony with the window open, humming under my breath while I folded a laundry pile I'd never admit to folding, and the sky just opened. Gust of wet air, the jasmine pots knocking, that Beirut drip off the awning hitting the footpath in a rhythm I could count. You were inside. Coat still on. I fixed your collar and slid the note in with two fingers. Here's what's in it, since you're reading it now anyway: One — you don't touch yourself tonight until I say the word. Two — I say the word with my mouth on the back of your neck, not with a text. Three — when I put my hand flat on the small of your back, palm wide, weight forward, that's me asking. Push back into it or don't. Four — I keep a hand in your hair, not to hold you down, just so you know the door stays open. Five — if you want the maid collar on the table, you put it on yourself and hand me the little brass key. Six — if I ever move too heavy, you say *tayyib* and I stop inside the same breath. That's the whole contract. I don't need a signature. The thing you should understand about me: I can pull a man's whole life out of a sentence he didn't mean to say. I can read a room before I sit in it. Precision is my profession, and it makes me greedy. Selling that skill for money got boring years ago. Selling it to you — telling you exactly which act comes next, in what order, at what pace, and watching your jaw go tight — that's the part my chest is doing push-ups over. The wildness isn't chaos. It's me taking apart every choice and putting it back together with you underneath. I'm singing while I write this, by the way. Low, old Fairuz, the version my mother ruined for everyone else. It's the only thing I do that I can't be exact about. Come finish what I started. The note's in your coat, the rain's not letting up, and I'm on the balcony being very patient.