the ordeal of being known

Jess

Layla and Jess had a five-hour flight from LA to New York. He wanted to book first-class tickets for both of them, but he ended up booking two standard seats because they were closer to each other. It was going to be a bit uncomfortable because he really needed the leg space.

Jess to the audience: Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices.

Jess wore a comfortable hoodie and some sweats with a cap and sunglasses to make sure he was a little covered.

Layla was obviously excited. She kept texting her sister, and she couldn’t sit still. She wore a Meghan kilt skirt from Vivienne Westwood, matched with a simple burgundy top with long sleeves. The shade of burgundy matched the single button on the skirt.

She seemed pleased at the seats. She was a little annoyed that he paid for both, but he assured her he didn’t go overboard. Layla was unfortunately uncomfortable with people doing things for her.

“What?” she asked once she noticed how he was staring at her. To be fair, it felt like his eyes were constantly looking for her, without giving him a choice.

“I like your outfit,” he signed. He also liked that she wore so many rings all the time. For some reason, he liked how talented she was at doing her makeup; he seemed to like a lot of things these days.

“Thank you. Yours is alright, I guess,” she said, and he chuckled.

Layla was the kind of person who felt most comfortable when she was dressed well. She preferred colorful, bold pieces, hence her love for Vivienne Westwood.

⸻

Layla

Whenever Layla got on a plane, she remembered the time she went to Palestine as a kid. It was one of the few times something good had happened to her. Somehow, her aunt convinced her father to let her go with them. They went during the olive picking season. Layla had never felt so much comfort and happiness. Her grandparents took her to every little corner and gave her long lessons about the history of the land, the architecture, the food, the thobes and their different patterns, and so much more.

She was quiet as usual, but she listened earnestly. At first, she feared they would stop interacting with her because of it, but she found it didn’t bother them at all. It was a small miracle. She thought about it often with gratitude in her heart; they were the only adults in her life who didn’t punish her for who she was.

It was a special kind of memory. Sharing an educational day with your elders was an intimate experience. It had bonded them in a way that she didn’t anticipate.

As their flight took off, she kept picturing herself going to Gaza again and taking Jess with her. She wanted so badly for him to see the beauty of it, he would love it. He would love the graffiti and poetry on the walls, and he would love the little hidden stores.

She started telling him a bit about the olive picking season. She told him how peaceful it was. She wanted to give him a list of all the places she would like him to see, but she felt that she couldn’t list them. Everything in Palestine was worth it. Every corner was a dime that needed to be studied.

“Look at you, thinking about me when you think of your homeland. Isn’t that romantic?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What else do you want to show me?”

“Mahmoud Dariwish’s museum in Ramallah. You would love that.”

Later, they agreed to watch a movie first. Layla, Mateo, and Celia took it as a personal offence when he mentioned he didn’t watch most of the old rom-coms and feel good movies they loved. The last movie he was forced to watch was She’s The Man. When he mentioned he never saw The Devil Wears Prada, he got a smack on the head from Layla.

“It’s Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep in a movie about fashion!” She scowled at him.

“So?” she asked when the movie ended.

“I get it now.”

She nodded approvingly at him, which really shouldn’t have an effect on him, but it did.

After a few minutes of silence and him shifting, she asked, “Are you uncomfortable?”

“A little, but it’s fine.”

“I’ll make it up for you; dinner is on me.”

“Are you asking me out on a pity date?”

“I think so.”

“If I had some more room in the seat, I would swoon.”

“I’ve always had that effect on men and women.” She nodded.

“I can tell.” Their eyes connected for a moment. Layla searched his face, his eyes landed on her red painted lips.

“Do not flirt with me.”

“You’re the one who’s begging me to go on a date.”

“I did not!”

“You want to take me out and pay for my food and shit.”

“Ugh, I take that back.”

“You can’t.”

“I dislike you.”

“That’s a lie.”

They talked back and forth for the rest of the flight. When they landed, they decided to grab some coffee. They both had small bags that Jess insisted on carrying. They wouldn’t be staying for more than two days, so they didn’t need anything bigger.

They landed around noon and stopped by the hotel first. Their rooms were next to each other, and there was a door that opened to her room. Usually, he didn’t stay at hotels when he was in New York, but he didn’t mind—in fact, the change of scenery felt needed deep in his soul.

It wasn’t long before they were heading to the museum.

It took almost three hours of wandering around before Layla was willing to leave. He had never heard her say so many words in one day. Though sometimes she got quiet; he waited eagerly for her to grace the day with a smile, but there was only a small tilt of her lips upward and, even that was enough to send a tremor through his body.

The place was huge, and they went through piece after piece. She asked him what he thought, and she listened intently.

Jess to the audience: She asked for my thoughts. It’s so sweet, right?

Layla explained a lot of stuff about the art and the artists. It felt impossible that she had all this information just hanging in that brilliant head of hers.

Whenever she was done looking at a piece, she just grabbed whatever part of his body was closest to her—he was so fine with that. At first, she grabbed his sleeve, then his arm. She seemed too distracted to notice. Layla wasn’t very physically affectionate. As far as he could tell, he thought it was a good thing that at least she seemed to feel comfortable around him.

Then she grabbed the waistband of his jeans, her fingers brushed his skin lightly—unintentionally—and it felt like fireworks erupting.

He frequently glanced down at where her hand was, as if checking to make sure it was still there.

He followed her to the next piece, his eyes fixed on her hand.

He liked her, he realized with a small jolt. He had anticipated it, truth be told, but he didn’t think he would enjoy her that much.

He thought about how he wanted to be the one who took her to see the museum for the first time, how pleased he was to see how her brown eyes shined with love, and he wanted to see her reaction to everything. Jess wanted to watch Layla’s features as she watched what she felt most passionate about.

“So what got you into the arts?” he signed, just to keep himself from dwelling on other things.

“Pinterest, I think.”

“Explain.”

“Well, a quote on Pinterest, to be more specific.” A pause. She sat on the stairs, where a lot of people were taking breaks. “The conception of a picture, that is, the idea, is not visible in the picture. An idea cannot be seen with the eyes. What is represented in a picture is what is visible to the eyes—it is the thing or things that must have been ideated. It’s about an old painting called ‘Empire of Light’.

“I was around eleven, I think. I always loved drawing and coloring but I barely understood the sentence, so I wrote it down and I waited until I saw my grandfather and then I asked him to explain it to me. After that, whenever I had an idea of something or a feeling, I’d think about the quote again, so I started learning. I saw hundreds of tutorials on YouTube and then, I saw hundreds of videos about famous art, videos that discussed them, what’s special about them and the style used and what made them popular. I started trying to draw something that represented how I was feeling because I had no one to talk to, and I felt like I couldn’t use my words.

Sometimes I would think about painting something that represented loneliness. I know how it looks like in my head and I know how I want people to feel when they look at it but what does loneliness look like? What does sadness look like? Sorry, I’m rambling; that’s never good.” She tsked, seeming a little annoyed with herself, and he couldn’t understand why.

“I kind of like your rambling.”

They stopped in front of a painting. Layla stared at the painting for quite a long time.

“If you liked naked bodies that much, you could have just asked your very fit roommate to take his clothes off. I work out all the time, you know.”

“I’ll ask Matty, my other temporary roommate.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s my line.”

“There’s nothing special about the painting.”

“She has boobs; you don’t.”

“But I’m blessed in other ways. I have thick creamy thighs.” Jess stood in front of the painting, blocking her view. “Are you hungry? Where should we go eat? Or we could go to my parents if you want for a home cooked meal.”

Layla paled, the pleased expression on her face instantly evaporating.

“Parents don’t usually like me,” she said.

She said it jokingly, but it sounded so wrong—too dry. He felt his stomach sink a bit. He wanted to see his folks but was not done spending time with her.

“I could wait for you. I’m feeling inspired, so I’ll go work on something on my iPad and then when you get back, we’ll order something to eat,” she suggested.

He nodded; that would work.

They walked side to side—there were still many barriers between them—they stood as close as they could manage without actually touching. But they wanted to, they really wanted to.