The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian Read Free Book Online Page A

“It will be such that you are not really there.”
    We took the boat to Skaneateles Lake one Saturday to try it out. The public launch was just off East Lake Road, down a dirt path lined with weeds and trees. We drove down to the shore, unloaded the sailboat from the roof of Shawki’s Fiat, then parked up the hill a ways, next to a station wagon with an empty boat trailer attached. Shawki got out of the car and examined the trailer. Patting it, he said, “Someday I will get one.”
    I wore my pink bikini under my shorts and T-shirt. Shawki had pronounced it a Shouldn’t as soon as I’d bought it and had quickly stuffed it into the pocket of a pair of “too-tight” jeans. I took it out after he left and put it in my underwear drawer, where it brightened up all the whites and beiges. I wore the top as a bra when I knew Shawki and I would make love, and was gratified by the flash of anger that passed over his face before he quickly untied it and pulled it off me.
    But today would be the first time I had worn the bikini in public. While Shawki was down by the shore raising the sail, I took off my shorts and T-shirt and tossed them in the back of the Fiat. I thought about taking off my sneakers, then remembered something Shawki had said about needing traction on a boat and changed my mind.
    â€œGo back and put your clothes,” he said when he saw me coming toward him.
    I nodded and went back and got my sunglasses from the glove compartment. “How’s that?” I asked when I returned.
    He looked away.
    â€œC’mon, Shawki,” I said. “It’s kind of funny.”
    He wouldn’t look at me.
    Shawki’s mood changed once we got on the water. It turned out he was a pretty good sailor. He had never sailed before, but had read a book about it, which was just about all Shawki ever needed to do. We skimmed along the bright green lake, our sail cracking, the boat’s fiberglass body showing no signs of springing a leak. Shawki slowed when we passed a house along the shore that he particularly admired. “How about that one?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun and pointing to a log cabin. “I take that one.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. I had tried hard all my life not to be too impressed with Skaneateles. I loved the lake, but the wealthy town perched on its shore I could do without. When I was little and we had out-of-town guests, my parents had always brought them here—as if where we lived on Syracuse’s north side wasn’t good enough. “Welcome to paradise,” Allison would mumble each time we smelled cow dung on the trip out—which was often—and we’d giggle in our corners of the back seat.
    Shawki and I sailed toward the village of Skaneateles, a strip of shore bordered by shops and a lengthy pier. We had done well so far, managing to avoid the other boats on the lake. A race had approached at one point but Shawki had maneuvered us out of their path, calmly instructing himself in Arabic under his breath. He was becoming accustomed to the two-handed job of steering and controlling the position of the sail; my only job was to move out of the way when he wanted to put the sail where I was sitting.
    I had just twisted my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck when three young men whizzed by us in a boat twice the size of ours, whistling and yelling, “Hey, hot stuff!” They were all shirtless and the one who yelled the loudest wore a captain’s hat. Shawki tried to steer us away from them but he needn’t have bothered; they were going much faster than we were and disappeared as quickly as they had come upon us. Nefertiti rocked a bit in their wake. Shawki stopped steering and let the sail go slack, leaving me to focus on the water sloshing over the edge of the boat and onto my sneakers.
    â€œI wish to return,” Shawki said suddenly.
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    â€œI’m