{"id":2380,"date":"2023-07-18T10:37:42","date_gmt":"2023-07-18T14:37:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2380"},"modified":"2023-07-18T10:37:42","modified_gmt":"2023-07-18T14:37:42","slug":"seven-hour-layover","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2380","title":{"rendered":"Seven Hour Layover"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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J.E. Safa<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Issue 16<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Flash Nonfiction<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two women\u2014one veiled, one not. Selling men\u2019s undergarments. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c100% cotton Made in Egypt,\u201d occasionally yelling out to a passenger scurrying by.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

iPhones bellowing out the Adhan\u2014alerting them it\u2019s time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They take turns praying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Big women. Strong stock. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They observe the travelers with a judgmental eye sitting outside the tiny store. They take calls and joke with each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So many men walk around with a black mark stamped into the middle of their forehead. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pious. They pray a lot. The turbah used during prostration solidifying their commitment to God for all the world to see. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Medicinal soil imbedded in their souls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t pray in the traditional Islamic sense. No one in my family does. I can\u2019t remember the last time I stepped foot in a mosque. (Note to self\u2014visit one when I get to Lebanon.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A beautiful man walks by. He is dressed in a white abaya, a black Jansport dangling off his right shoulder. I\u2019m trying to guess where he is from. Sudan? Senegal? Sierra Leone? Why am I concentrating on countries that start with an S?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I need coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone has children. They are loud and unruly. I don\u2019t like traveling with children. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A woman wipes down the toilet for me and hands me toilet paper. I tip her in dollars. I don\u2019t have Egyptian pounds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My cousin calls me while I\u2019m peeing. She was raped again. I\u2019m in Egypt, what can I do but listen? I\u2019ve already exceeded my international phone plan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m hungry. Maybe I\u2019ll eat Burger King. I wonder if it will taste better here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Many of the veiled women wear tight clothing, looking sexier than those of us who are unveiled faces full of makeup\u2014like a Lancome advertisement. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A swole guy walks by. I wonder if he takes steroids. He looks like he is about to bust out of his tight blue t-shirt. He looks Eastern European. He starts speaking Arabic, and I realize he is Lebanese like me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why didn\u2019t I take a cab to Khan-Al-Kahlili and visit my favorite bazaar?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder how I will be received on judgment day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hope this trip gives me the clarity I need. The last few years have been rough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My mother says Beirut is too hot. But how bad can it be? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember Brooklyn summers\u2014where the heat was unbearable, the window opened to the fire-escape\u2014blowing in nothing but street noise. My brother and I would fill a sock with ice and put it on our foreheads to cool down\u2014slowly being rocked to sleep by the R train rumbling underneath our building. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When we woke up, the ice would be melted, the damp sock stuck to our faces. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I feel like I\u2019m dying a slow death, being away from Brooklyn. Old, withering, rotting like my ovaries and uterus. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes when I see a baby I get a tightness in my belly. I\u2019m unsure if it\u2019s because I want one or if it\u2019s because I don\u2019t. Either way I can\u2019t. My body made the choice years ago.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember Lebanese summers. Balcony doors open all night. The breeze always cool. Falling asleep to the barking of stray dogs fighting over scraps of food. Waking up to the roosters\u2019 crow. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Learning to differentiate between the sound of an Israeli sonic boom or an actual bomb. Learning that my heart can stop for a second and I will continue to live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What were my parents thinking\u2014sending us to vacation in a war zone? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

..<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve eaten too many fries and drunk too much Pepsi and bad coffee. I\u2019m at my gate. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Lebanese diaspora looks so perfect. The women are always glamorously put together. Designer everything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My mother won’t be happy. I\u2019ve gained a bit of weight and I\u2019ve started picking my face again. I won\u2019t look perfect.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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J.E. Safa<\/strong>\u00a0is a first generation Lebanese-American writer born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.\u00a0 Her poems, essays and short stories appear in\u00a0The Esthetic Apostle, Coffee & Crumbs, Rusted Radishes, Running WIld Press<\/em>\u00a0and elsewhere. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for her short story, \u201cIn the Heart of Mama\u2019s Belly.\u201d She\u00a0currently resides in\u00a0South\u00a0Carolina where she is working on a short story collection\u00a0and a\u00a0memoir about her struggles with\u00a0infertility through the lens of an Arab Muslim woman.\u00a0<\/summary>\n

<\/p>\n<\/details>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “Ode to the Creases…<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “Questions Like This<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “Family Photo<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

J.E. Safa Issue 16 Flash Nonfiction Two women\u2014one veiled, one not. Selling men\u2019s undergarments.  \u201c100% cotton Made in Egypt,\u201d occasionally yelling out to a passenger scurrying by. iPhones bellowing out the Adhan\u2014alerting them it\u2019s time. They take turns praying. Big women. Strong stock.  They observe the travelers with a judgmental eye sitting outside the tiny store. They take calls and joke with each other. .. So many men walk around with a black mark stamped into the middle of their forehead.  Pious. They pray a lot. The turbah used during prostration solidifying their commitment to God for all the world to see.  Medicinal soil imbedded in their souls. I don\u2019t pray in the traditional Islamic sense. No one in my family does. I can\u2019t remember the last time I stepped foot in a mosque. (Note to self\u2014visit one when I get to Lebanon.) .. A beautiful man walks by. He is dressed in a white abaya, a black Jansport dangling off his right shoulder. I\u2019m trying to guess where he is from. Sudan? Senegal? Sierra Leone? Why am I concentrating on countries that start with an S? .. I need coffee. Everyone has children. They are loud and unruly. I don\u2019t like traveling with children.  .. A woman wipes down the toilet for me and hands me toilet paper. I tip her in dollars. I don\u2019t have Egyptian pounds. My cousin calls me while I\u2019m peeing. She was raped again. I\u2019m in Egypt, what can I do but listen? I\u2019ve already exceeded my international phone plan. .. I\u2019m hungry. Maybe I\u2019ll eat Burger King. I wonder if it will taste better here.  .. Many of the veiled women wear tight clothing, looking sexier than those of us who are unveiled faces full of makeup\u2014like a Lancome advertisement.  A swole guy walks by. I wonder if he takes steroids. He looks like he is about to bust out of his tight blue t-shirt. He looks Eastern European. He starts speaking Arabic, and I realize he is Lebanese like me.  Why didn\u2019t I take a cab to Khan-Al-Kahlili and visit my favorite bazaar? I wonder how I will be received on judgment day. .. I hope this trip gives me the clarity I need. The last few years have been rough. .. My mother says Beirut is too hot. But how bad can it be?  I remember Brooklyn summers\u2014where the heat was unbearable, the window opened to the fire-escape\u2014blowing in nothing but street noise. My brother and I would fill a sock with ice and put it on our foreheads to cool down\u2014slowly being rocked to sleep by the R train rumbling underneath our building.  When we woke up, the ice would be melted, the damp sock stuck to our faces.  But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love. .. I feel like I\u2019m dying a slow death, being away from Brooklyn. Old, withering, rotting like my ovaries and uterus.  Sometimes when I see a baby I get a tightness in my belly. I\u2019m unsure if it\u2019s because I want one or if it\u2019s because I don\u2019t. Either way I can\u2019t. My body made the choice years ago.    .. I remember Lebanese summers. Balcony doors open all night. The breeze always cool. Falling asleep to the barking of stray dogs fighting over scraps of food. Waking up to the roosters\u2019 crow.  Learning to differentiate between the sound of an Israeli sonic boom or an actual bomb. Learning that my heart can stop for a second and I will continue to live. What were my parents thinking\u2014sending us to vacation in a war zone?  But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love. .. I\u2019ve eaten too many fries and drunk too much Pepsi and bad coffee. I\u2019m at my gate.  The Lebanese diaspora looks so perfect. The women are always glamorously put together. Designer everything.  My mother won’t be happy. I\u2019ve gained a bit of weight and I\u2019ve started picking my face again. I won\u2019t look perfect.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2380","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2380","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2380"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2380\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2380"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}