Continued from part 3
When I kept getting online on MSN and Ahmad never get on, I sensed something was wrong.
I sent him offline messages. Messaged him on his cell phone. Messaged him on Facebook. Called him.
Never got an answer.
What went wrong? I thought our date went well.
I was very upset; you finally meet a guy who’s just your type and you know he’s into you, but he just acts like the other dipshits you dated before.
I shared this with my friends and had a brainstorming session:
“He’s a commitment-phobe.
He’s not over his ex.
He’s a virgin.
Maybe he lost his cellphone.
He’s just not that into you.
He didn’t feel good enough for you.
He’s gay in denial.
He’s simply “mafsoum”!
He’s an asshole. Deal with it!”
But I just couldn’t deal with it.
Call me crazy, but I knew he liked me. And even if he doesn’t like me more than a friend (which I doubt), then why isn’t he answering my fucking calls?
I did what any other self respecting gay fatherfucker who can’t handle rejection would do: stalk him.
No, but seriously, what would YOU do?
So one day, I got off work early, drove over to his neighborhood, parked my car somewhere close to his house, and waited for him to arrive.
I felt like James fucking Bond; if Bond was a 5’7’’ Lebanese man with a 1997 Renault Megane who rejects Halle Berry and fucks the brains out of the Russian spy before killing him.
After 45 minutes of waiting and realizing how very “Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction” this was, Ahmad is finally here! He makes his way into the building. I wait for 5 more minutes, giving him time to reach his house cause I didn’t want to confront him on the street.
My heart starts racing, but I take a deep breath and get out of the car.
I don’t really know what floor he’s on, so I look at the building interphone and figure it out. Luckily, he left the gate open.
I climb up the stairs and next thing you know, I’m standing in front of his door.
“What if this goes bad and I get thrown out or something”, I think to myself.
My hand’s quivering.
I finally manage to knock.
I hear slow footsteps getting closer behind the door. The person looks behind the door lens, waits five seconds, and starts to open the door.
It’s his mother.
James Bond didn’t see that one coming.
“Bonsoir Tante. Is Ahmad here?”, I asked.
She looks at me weirdly like it’s the first time her son ever had a visitor at 7 pm, and invites me in.
At first I tell her I would rather wait outside, but she insisted, so I enter. I sensed that she was a nice mom. Ahmad had told me she was in her forties, but she looked like she was sixty. Guess time had taken its toll.
She told me Ahmad was taking a shower and I could wait in the living room. Then suddenly, she says:
“God. Ya 3ayb el shoom! What am I going to serve you? I wasn’t expecting any guests. Do you want some tea?”.
I wanted to say “No, you don’t have to”, but I know Lebanese moms. She wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. So I said: “Tea would be great”.
As she was in the kitchen, I noticed that it was a small house. Modest, to say the least. You can tell they were living on a month to month paycheck.
I saw some framed pictures on the wall. One of the pictures was obviously taken on his graduation day because he was wearing his cap and gown holding his diploma, with his mom standing proudly next to him. Another picture was his father holding him when he was a toddler, I guess. He was a cute happy kid…
So his mother gets out of the kitchen, repeatedly apologizes for not having anything else to serve me, sits down, and asks me who was I and how I knew Ahmad.
“I’m Walid”, I tell her. “I know Ahmad from work”.
Don’t look surprised. We Lebanese gay guys have to lie when asked that question.
She explains why it took her a while to open the door. It’s because their door is rarely knocked upon. She also tells me how Ahmad’s whole life rotates around the office, his house, and gym.
Then she asks me: “So tell me. Are you sick like my son?”
I was dumbfounded. What kind of question is that?
“Sick?”, I ask her? “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. I have a feeling you’re one of those… How about your parents? How are they dealing with this kind of sickness at their family?”
And to think she was a nice mom…
Thankfully I didn’t have to answer her because the bathroom door finally opened!
“Ahmadddd. There’s someone here to see you”, she belts out.
“Shouuu?”, he shouts back, as he gets closer to the living room.
My heart races. What’s gonna be his reaction when he sees me?
I finally see him.
He’s wearing a towel around his waist.
He’s soaking wet.
Read Part 5 HERE
ps: “Let Me In” is a fictional story