Coins Of One Face.

Sometimes I am on the dancing floor among a raving crowd, trying to dance the animal inside out of me, and I clasp my eyes shut. I have to close them lids, or else those around me will interrupt my trip. However, I still can feel them lights quickly drawing all sorts of coloured rays on my body, like endless quick knives thrown at a woman in a circus trick. Sometimes, I feel I am the queen of this world. But suddenly, a huge robotic mechanical arm will quickly close its knuckles on my waist and notch me quickly out of the crowd. It’s like when I pluck a hair of my eye brow or when a kid wins that arcade game and the arm picks them a teddy bear as a reward– that they never really wanted. I fight back, and I beat the iron arm around my waist, but I wind up with sore knuckles and the grip of the arm gets tighter tearing my cloth – and the arm shakes me, as if it is after something hidden inside me that it wants to fall out of me.

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There are other times, when I am a woman wearing a nice simple dress with light colours that fit with the morning party I am attending in a garden. Usually, there are people around me chitchatting, sipping on champagne and commenting on the colour changes the morning light brings to my facial features. But suddenly, I am able to crop everyone out of my sight. I smile the smile of a teenager who is excited they heard the door close as their parents finally got out of the house. I run to the buffet in excitement that doesn’t fit with my high heels, then gently lay down my champagne glass on the white cloth covering the buffet and I start throwing dishes. There is nothing more relieving than throwing one after the other at totally random targets, laughing like an uncontrolled beast, breaking my French-manicured nails and having a few bruises due to my carelessness. I’d suck on the blood that escaped my finger and I’d throw more – making noise, making a mess, making the crash I yearn for.

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But there are those times, when I am walking a dog, having my hair raised up in a practical manner and wearing shorts and a T-shirt, in a Cairo street where by-passers don’t stare at each other. I keep walking and I don’t care where my legs take me. Then another dog, which a by-passer is taking for a walk and doesn’t care where his legs are taking him, either, grins and growls at my dog. The by-passer and I will stare at each other, even though we have been avoiding that, and the eye-contact will give birth to that spark of challenge, rivalry and awaited violence. A mud pool will pop out of nowhere and the two dogs will stop their growling because they have a better play to watch now. The by-passer and I comprehend each other pretty well – the purpose of this mud fight is shallow and doesn’t deserve to be mentioned, but its mercilessness and the anger it reveals are the commons aims we share. The proper mud fight lasts for hours till we are completely breathless, then we’ll get out, wash the mud off our weary bodies with some water, air dry, look at each other and smile the business-like smile of “goodbye” – so will the dogs.