#cairo sweet

Two walks of life converging in that fatal moment at the cafeteria. A rich girl with a chip on her shoulders, disillusioned by the dull reality away from the eloquence of fairytales — boredom that escapes words, characters that somehow have less layers than a single piece of paper. Contrasting sharply against you, a simple woman that acted by the whims of hormones gone awry, mixed in with a sense of invincibility and little to no legal repercussions. Anger half contained burned and explored pages of manic writing, unfiltered thoughts you scribbled in large slashes and labored breaths, soon set ablaze with all-consuming fire.

Anger wasn’t the way you moved, you needed a stronger muse than anger. The same anger that led you to this side of Tennessee. Knuckles hardened, a shared cigarette dangling from your lips, yet regretting nothing.

“What was it that you did?” Cairo asked, piercing through the silence of the empty football field. A hand reached when you kept silent to ponder the answer, snatching the lit cigarette from your lips. “Too shy to share?”

You only glanced at her and chuckled softly. A shake of your head. “I was very angry,” you paused to truly turn your head to observe her as she took a long needed drag. “And I got cheated.”

Cairo stared back at you with those piercing eyes, intrigued by the chaos in your mind. Tacitly it implored you to share, to dig further.

“A teacher, I messed with a teacher,” was your way to put it.

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “I see.”

That’s when you knew this bomb was one that you knew. A bomb you didn’t manufacture, but had your fingerprints all over it. Destruction written in its genetic making. “Is that what you did?”

She kept that to herself, quiet, but the complacency of her eyes and the eerie, barely-there smirk on her lips told you it was along those lines. It was all up to you to figure out how and, even more pressing, why. You knew yours came from anger, you could only guess hers came from it as well. But anger spawned from the unjust world seldom destroyed without trace. A destruction so meticulous that kept her in school. No, this was something stronger than that.

The dancing smoke swayed sensually, she made it look cinematic and rich rather than tough and dangerous. With a flick of your hand the cigarette was away from her soft lips and back to yours, savoring in that indirect taste and letting the toxic smog into you. 

Second contact.

An implicit pact sealed, signed in weaving nicotine and conniving smiles.

God creates ‘em, the devil pits them together.

Simple chatter about mundane things fortified this sordid relationship of yours. The first few days in this new school passing you by like a blur that only gained shape and clarity when you were hanging out with your new friend, Cairo Sweet.  Beneath the mystique and the veneer of spoiled child was a smiling, laughing and curious intellectual girl. One that poked and prodded to your less chaotic aspect of life with genuine interest, one that shared parts of herself that many on-lookers cared not to know. Except for one gaze that lingered among the crowd, a devastated pair of eyes that looked away quickly once noticing you staring back — a story yet to be told, anticipation tickling your spine as you seek to put the pieces of this mystery together.

Likewise, she seemed to think you as a mystery the same way. A gaze that stayed too long first gave you the inkling, but then it was the curiosity to see what you scribbled so fervently when you were left to your own devices. Playfully trying to snatch the wrinkled paper from your grip and failing, ‘cause you were quicker and taller. Yet she never relented, managing one time to slip the paper out of your bag when you were distracted with your food. You hadn’t noticed, you hadn’t noticed at all she did that until…

Third contact.

Surrounded by the lavish green of forest trees, trekking your way through with languid steps, the distant sounds of nature filled the silence between you and Cairo. Perhaps the first time you traversed through the woods that everyone was so afraid to touch, unflinching — no, appreciative — of its sinister beauty. The first thing that pierced through the silence was the sound of familiarity dripping from Cairo’s lips.

“Intangible the feeling of aggression, its source hiding beneath societal convention.”

You stopped in your tracks, looking at her with wild confusion. She stopped too, slowly looking at you with a small smile.

“Fingers pointed to the product of its rotten system, retaliation the only answer we can think of,” the cadence like she didn’t rehearse this, like she wrote it. “Hardly thinking that, perhaps, there may be more. Soaring sore through life after being beaten down in the gallows…” 

Your vulnerable thoughts committed to memory, your new friend now knew more than you. 

Her smile made your heart swell with wild adulation, the tilt of her head just a gesture that felt so much more. “Not a poem, not a story, not a suicide note. This is just my anger in the shape of words.” 

Heavy silence only tenderly filled with the murmurs of weaving leaves, brisk breeze heralding the arrival of rain to come, the golden rays of the sun soon to be muffled by the gliding clouds that began to dominate the sky. Standing face to face, you and Cairo exchanged a genuine smile and giggle. 

“You nabbed my shit?” you asked, hands on your hips, looking down at her with playful accusation.

“You weren’t looking, that’s on you,” she teased back, looking right back and standing a little closer. Mirroring your stance, she quietly defied you. 

“And you memorized it,” you continued.

“It wasn’t hard,” Cairo said rather sweetly. Was this a genuine smile? Or was it one with practiced deceit? You couldn’t tell. “It has a rhythm to it, it flows easy.”

You were stunned silent, but pleased. Was this the power of being seen by someone so similar to you? Odd, this powerful feeling. A feeling that dawned you more than Cairo could imagine; a light shining bright in a section of the mystery standing before you. You knew something now, so you tried something.

“A fine eye for literature you have, huh?” You said, still not budging from your position, not minding the closeness but not caring to close it. 

Cairo’s eyes glimmered something precious, the feeling of recognition — though small and subtle — changed the demeanor of her face. Yes, there might be deceit but there was, above all, a genuine sense of appreciation. Third contact, but you’ve hit something here. Something you could dangle in front of her just like she was dangling in front of you. To be seen, to be heard, to be centered in someone else’s warped world. Everything around you is nonsense, unimportant, but you… you were something different for her. Was it something she could use? Something to keep misery some company? There was a new mystery now.

A hand stretched slowly, beckoning her to return what wasn’t hers. Cheekily she licked her teeth and relented, reaching back in her bag and fishing out the folded, wrinkly piece of paper that felt heavy with strong emotion. Once in your hand, you took it out of harm’s way. “An eye for an eye,” you started, leading her hanging still for the coming words. “Take me to your home, I want to read your works.”

She looked playfully curious, watching you continue the path ahead without waiting for her interjection, her approval or anything. Merrily, she merely followed.

Swinging roble door announced the arrival of the house master, nothing but echos of wood against wall to greet her; silence finding company in the cobwebs of hard to reach places and light coat of dust in the seldom used piano. A kitchen too spacious for one girl of her petite frame, a fridge too grand for a small family. Gluttonous tendencies or maybe the untold tales of a once-happy family? 

“This way,” she said, her voice was soft yet it travelled across the empty belly of her house, scaring even the ghosts of the past away from her path. And of course, you followed. 

A silent command sat you on the end of the large dining table, and you obliged as it was courtesy. She disappeared somewhere, the unmistakable footsteps reverberating on the walls, betraying her position as she moved further. At least she could never hope to sneak up behind you. What did sneak up was the confirmation of your suspicion. Family portraits, generation of wealth and decadence but hardly any warmth or love in those smiles. Cairo stood there, young and devoid of love, devoid of importance, stuck in the pit that is bumfuck fucking nowhere. A marriage held together by mutual contempt for their offspring, one that they left stranded to fend for herself with plenty of money to go around.

But no love, no love at all. 

Putting the piece of the puzzle, hardly could you be wrong about your deduction. 

Yanking you back to reality, her footsteps neared you too close, enough to compose yourself to turn to greet her. Piece of paper filled with a sea of word, five of ‘em, languidly handed over to you. With nothing to say, not a word, not a smile, just an anticipatory look and a silent encouragement for you to read. As you glanced through the words briefly, she walked away to sit right on the other end of the table, awaiting your examination, maybe your opinion.  

Eyes connected for a second too long, prompting Cairo to break the silence. 

“Read it, aloud,” meant to sound with authority, but desperate for adulation right beneath it.

And who were you to decline? 

“Mr. Murphy, clever and carelessly attractive, kept his thoughts to himself and his eyes at half-mast…”

Your voice firm and thundering through the house like reading an important speech, progressing to suppress the vague surprise as the salacious words started to seep into the narrative. Self-deprecating in an odd way, yet she was the center of attention for this fictional man.

Fictional as far as the eyes could tell.

Turpitude mixed with bombastic wording — expressions seen only in the finest of works from the past — a clear distinction to your style, spawning from different places and different psyches. And it fascinated you to ponder where her mind was when this was written. Or rather, what was happening.

Dashing Mr. Murphy entertaining the forbidden, a teacher and student premise filled with provocative eroticism — this was no romance, as the very writing will say. A real teacher, you guessed, a real teacher that played too close to the fire and scalded his pink tide of a tongue when he kissed the flame. Tempted, perhaps, by the tantalizing price of a student’s virginity dripping right against his clothed virility. A temptation most idiots fall for. There was something else about this however. Tear stained paper hardly went unnoticed, specially as your fingertips caressed the subtle dry waves of it, like this once ignited strong emotions of disillusionment. You knew, too, that Cairo sitting across from you (so far and seemingly detached) was a girl with a sinisterly delicious underbelly. 

Your voice ceased without you realizing, hanging on the edge of the last word as the heat rose within the text. Thoughts overusing willpower, stopping yourself from musing aloud save for a soft, strained “damn” that slipped. A little loss of smug composure that made Cairo smirk with pride. Acknowledged, feeling mighty now that she could shake you. A dangerously intoxicating power. Probably the same kind of high she felt when she wrote this for her lover (about her lover?) and swiftly sent him with a one way ticket to expulsion.

There was more to it, you knew there was. More to the parallel of you being told to read this aloud, like she had assumed the position of Mr. Murphy in this model — now sitting in power and with a brand new subject. A fatal showcase of vulnerability and flaw. Hidden within the gaudy wording of her prose were glimmers of explosive insecurity. His deft fingers slipping into her dark void of her cunt was window dressing to the real core of it all; the desire far more than carnal.  

“You’ve stopped reading,” Cairo pointed out.

Gaze slowly scattered from the words to look at her. Couldn’t help your smirking tugging your lips. “Such crude literature,” you teased, eyes skimming through the decadent vulgarity sculpted in educated words. But you’ve figured out her pitch.

Ostentatiously green decorations invaded the house, like envy personified in its emerald tones, pulsing with Cairo’s desperate ineptitude to understand casual, simple love. So devoid is she of love and affection that extreme, forbidden showcases of it are the only thing she knows to be true. Pieces clicked together with the loose words left to hang in the hallway that day. The student body feeling like Cairo was the devious master of a plan, the one in control of something, rather than just the victim of a system. She got someone thrown out, maybe the man this Mr. Murphy was supposed to represent. The veracity of what happened still uncertain to you.

All you knew is that scorn, disillusionment and anger gripped this piece, post-script. It tastes of vengeance that didn’t heal running tears. 

With a sure shot of boldness coursing through your warm veins, you gently put the paper down when a question took center stage. “Is this what gained you your reputation?”

Cairo raised her eyebrow in response, giving a brief pause before she responded: “It was once dedicated to a mediocre man, who got what he deserved.”

The feathery touch of a chill down your spine was not from the words alone. Brutal descriptions by your favorite extreme lyricists painted vivid pictures more than this, enough to remain in your mind for repetition. It was the look in her eyes, the tone of her voice and the way the sweet mask of her face slipped to reveal that true self. Trusting your lack of care for the world, trusting your vision to see that her action was right, that her vengeance was justified. 

Not an ounce of remorse for what happened. 

“That’s why you were dressed for a fuckin’ funeral that first day,” you almost said absentmindedly.

She desperately seemed like she was holding back tears, to be validated for her manipulative efforts — a story half-told, half-pieced together, yet details missing. But you knew exactly what she was seeking from you, had her in the palm of your hand. Now you could make a tight fist to crumble her world and become her new victim in a brand new game of cat and mouse…

And while that would be fun, your fingers itched to grab a pen and start scribbling maddeningly. A steady grip on a metaphorical leash that kept Cairo at bay and at your service.

“What a fool he was,” was the simple response that tugged a small smile from her. 

You were playing with fire, but you’re a pyromaniac.

Mutual destruction assured, the two of you functioned under the policy of Nuclear Deterrence. The price for your silence was her own, the reward of it meant a dangerous manipulator was on your side. A girl who knew to twist the truth to benefit her; a girl yearning desperately to be touched. 

Lascivious words written down in the ‘magnum opus’ were meaningless to her now, yet the yearning was still scorching hot — flames dancing and threatening to catch on the walls, incinerate all to ashes. Sweltering so, a single touch on the surface of her skin felt like it rippled waves of flames, subtle hairs in arms sharpening in goosebumps. It caught her off guard enough to stare at you with wonderment in the middle of class, the studious and intellectual Cairo couldn’t really comprehend this dark magic you were doing.

Fourth contact.

Fingertips grazed soft skin as a precursor of a hand slipping down to her bare thigh. A breath caught on her throat, chest steadily straightening; palm caressing slowly like the tender sauntering of a snake, finger pressing the flesh to feel its quickening pulse, the muscles tensing beneath your warmth. All gibberish that came out of the oblivious professor’s mouth, for Cairo couldn’t stop staring at you before her head snapped back to face front and avoid suspicion. Tight, holding back, so deliciously needy to respond to this ardent touch that meant more than words. It was worship in public, saucy adoration that would have made vengeance meaningless. A creature worthy of love, she was. Her heartbeat made her human for once, above the never ending envy of those who have gotten love. 

A strange kind of love, wordless, but better than whatever that hack of a writer had given her. 

Soon, your hand slipped back to your seat, feeling the breath release from her in a deep sigh. A complicit smile you gave her, and she gave you one in turn too. Another pact sealed in this hold-up of a friendship, guns cocked and steady aimed. A click coming from the both of them, like the safety lock came undone. What became an aim to shoot and disarm soon twisted and changed. Muzzle nuzzled against sweating foreheads, warm with intent to burn overtime; the two of you were ready to shoot to kill. 

A shift in the center of your life and hers, strange tension to follow, emanating violently when the two of you were present together — the hallways becoming interested and suffocated, like they knew the toxic combination was trouble for this bomb of a school. 

The space between the two of you slowly fading as Cairo stood closer to you, hand placed in your arm more habitually. Drunken in adoration, her touch travelled from forearm to shoulder, from shoulder to neck. Metaphorical leash fastened around your neck tight, and she didn’t care to gently pull the leash to keep you close and in contact. Your touch travelled from thigh inwards, yet snaking past to her hips and waist, groping flesh with growing possessiveness that made her smile with intoxicated confidence. An exciting change to the routine that was building bit by bit, yet never a kiss or a fondle in the right place. All to culminate in a duo writing session back at Cairo’s estate, your frenzied scribbles dancing a rhyme and flow that you cared not to keep consistent contrasted to her laptop’s keys clicking away to conjure words of fine literature.

Literary Bonnie and Clyde, walking terror duplicated. Fervid passion growing as you both became more than friends, yet couldn’t find a label to pin into whatever arrangement this was. Keeping each other company, speaking of mutual interests and mutual contempt for the mundane;  a collision of two distinct worlds, sharp edges clank-clank-clashing in a violent dance of power. Would you call that a friendship? Cairo wouldn’t dare to call you both lovers and you wouldn’t upset the flow. Knuckles calloused from physical battles, lips bruised from fervent forbidden passion; prose slipped your fingertips as you both were destructively good muse for each other’s inspiration. 

Hers a fine literature that would shake the publishers, the hungry critics, and the most pent-up readers; yours a hard-gut punch of urban rawness to scandalize the educated and to pierce through pretentiousness. An epic tale of teenage bravado and self-centeredness, with the magic of youth. 

Danger walked among the crowd but it wasn’t just you. 

Boots thumping, jiggling chains, the flicker of a troublemaker in your eyes, but it wasn’t you. Yes, you could feel its tantalizing aura close but its source evaded your sharp eyes. A time for truth, anxiety trickling up the spines of every student that you witnessed down the hallway. Sizzling hot gossip dripping down their lips, sweetening the ear and barely giving a shit. The new face bothered them none, that is you, walking through the mass of moving bodies, slack and zombie-like, like it was everyday that they had a new schoolmate but not everyday that someone was coming back. All the vague anxiety of being new stripped away and tossed out the window, seeing that you weren’t as important as the newest-latest. 

“She’s coming back?”

“So I heard, dude.”

“After what happened?”

“Can she get Mr. Tyler expelled too? I’m tired of that mother–.”

Curiosity’s piqued but you can’t intrude, the mass of folks aren’t even staring at you. Condensed groups huddle close, like preventing information leaking, even though every mouth spoke the same damn thing. Who is back? Why’s that bad? You have no clue, not with your feet steady stomping through the hallways — passing by the custard colored lockers, awkward fashion sense and clean-cut boring teens. Your destination was fixed at the Principal’s office to be given your locker number, combination and class; shaping you to integrate to your new life, in this odd school. A gorgeously odd school that you knew must be ripe with sordid secrets, filled with tense heavy air that quaked the earth beneath you, dense atmosphere that only required a spark to set ablaze — like the flick of a switchblade to herald the coming chaos, or maybe a playful bump into someone with short temper to trigger total pandemonium.

Oh, but you couldn’t do that. In this new school you were set to behave, you must. 

Those were the same words you heard when you walked into the Principal’s office. Wooden and antiquated like the man behind the desk himself, old-school strictness and properness that almost felt cartoonish. You must not, under any circumstances, break the rules or you will be (without question) expelled.  You played your part, simply nodding and giving your word that you were going to do your best. All the while you crossed every finger of your body, living on the edge of sin and fueled by mischief alone. You were 19, held back once, and entirely remarkable, with no record but just behavioral notes — something you took pride in, ‘cause it only meant you were never found with anything serious, and that the switchblade in your socks had not been noticed even if you at first propped your feet up the table. Whatever the case, the man talked your ear off some more before he let you go once more, encouraging you to go out and mingle. And mingle you will, after all you had to know what were these rumors and this strange air that wafted about.

That offbeat feel coating you the moment you walked out of the Principal’s office, like the dull man himself was immune to the excitement of uncertainty. But you wondered why that sensation felt heavier, closer, starting to truly suffocate.

Until you saw it and it held your breath hostage, like your own switchblade had been taken and used against you. Danger walking in your vicinity, yet never tangible. The tension you felt before all emanated from this girl you saw walking right past you, like anguish itself had formed in the shape of 5’1 chiseled perfection, a gorgeous face with the pair of eyes that told a story the moment you looked at them. A story intriguing enough to make you turn around as you saw her walk past you, clutching her backpack and her eyes fixed somewhere beyond this world. Pushing the door with certain surrender and the Principal’s voice shifting its tune before that door slammed right in your face. It only took you a second to turn and see, in that quick flash, all the eyes and heads go back to hiding.

Shit, you would even wager that this was the woman of the hour, the one who made the whispers and wild theories cease entirely down the hallway, the one who suddenly released a bit of the pressure in this pressure cooker of a school. But only a little bit, enough to give you breathing room. Enough to make you decide to pursue this curious endeavor.

A dangerous endeavor to handle gingerly like a dynamite, but one that felt like home to you.

Your gravitas didn’t make you very popular. 

Implicitly, it told everyone what they feared was true. The dregs of society living in a microcosm within you, the future harbinger of anarchy in this prestigious school. That made listening into the gossip a total pain in the fucking ass, the conversation suddenly steered to you when they all realized that the boogeyman came to school. Much to your annoyance, there was only so much your earphones could block. A hard shot of rock and hip-hop could only muffle the sound of shuffling feet, tray slamming, loud laughter, and the barely concealed looks of wonder from the normal students. Couldn’t even trust the loudmouths to give you the tip!

There you were all by your lonesome at the cafeteria with a tray of already empty containers, your voracious appetite satiated for the time being. But your craving for destruction? Still flaring hot, making your fingertips tap to the anxious rhythm of the music; your eyes scanned through the swimming crowd looking for that walking nuclear bomb. You needn’t look longer, not when the entire atmosphere shifted again as soon as someone walked into the Cafeteria. Several eyes and heads turned to observe, most with disdain, some others with fear, but all of them with curiosity. Just like yours.

A menace with a nice pair of legs, almost gliding through the mass like she was eternally bored with the crowd around her — uncaring of what they thought, and never regretting whatever it was she did to earn such a silent reputation. Shorts that certainly had to violate some kind of dress code, nice rich-girl sweater, and old-lady that’s equally rich kind of watch and ferociously smooth hair limply set on her shoulder and chest. Black, on black, on black, like a young widow in mourning of something. Frankly, that only made you wonder if she capped someone, offed them completely and was never accused formally. That didn’t help the mystery surrounding the girl seem any less tantalizing. 

Quietly observing her, you felt like a predator eyeing another one. Adrenaline threatened to pump, a surge of energy injected all over your body, but you held your position as she grabbed a tray, got herself a slob of food that looked more alive than the crowd, and made her way to a table as lonely as she looked. Deserted, the remaining suckers having seen her coming and scattering like scared cockroaches. Unbothered, she simply sat down to eat.

A beat, a second one, the music in your earphones slowly fading to leave you with your thoughts for that brief moment. Pondering, considering, ‘till you just couldn’t stop yourself, getting up from your seat. The thick air almost made it difficult to walk in her direction, like a magnet keeping you away from a bad decision. Tick-tick-clicks from the metaphorical bombs in tandem to the rhythm of your hefty footsteps, a soldier marching head first into war, while stories of street wars blasted in your eardrums. Once you were too close, you knew something had shifted for you.

First contact.

Unceremoniously, you sat right across from her as her gaze stayed fixed upon her food, hands busy going through the mechanical motions while her thoughts surfed far away from this dull small village. You just observed quietly for that moment, with a subtle smirk on your lips. When she finally looked up to see you, it seemed a bit obvious she did not expect you. Oh, those eyes were brookite gemstones that glimmered with devious indifference, perhaps vague annoyance, but you’ve encountered worse. 

“Can I help you?” She said, her voice piercing through the layer of melodies and hypnotic drums. “I’m busy here.”

Plucking your earphones off, you finally addressed her proper. “What’s your pitch?”

Confusion, hands still idly going through the motions. 

Leaning closer, arms on the table now, you pressed on further. “People here are avoiding you like the plague, yet no one can tell me anything.” Pause, she didn’t interject or even cared to add, her gaze lost in the universe once again. Instead, the silence set for a moment. You shrugged. “You’d think the criminal new student would be the draw of attention, but you, whoever you are, seemed to do something worse than I did,” which, for the record, was funnier than it was bad. 

The girl paused, stabbing that lively blob with her fork absentmindedly before she looked back up at you. “You? A criminal?”

Your smirk grew a little bigger. “That’s the word around here,” you mumbled at length. Just for her and you to hear. “So, I think we both might be on the same boat.”

She fully stopped, putting her fork down. “What boat is that?”

“The boat of outsiders?” you tried with a soft chuckle, head tilted, her expression stainless steel that concealed any true emotion. “The boat of outcasts in this… dull, boring herd of sheep,” you continued, letting a bit of that natural disdain for normalcy seep through to your voice. 

And unsurprisingly, that caught her interest. Expression softened, eyebrows loosening, body moving forward closer to you. A kinship cemented in rebelliousness, in refusal to stick to the routines… A desperate need to be more than what’s decided. That’s how you knew this danger was worth to keep closer.

A hand boldly came forth for shaking. Yours. A meaningless name exchanged for a precious one. 

Her own hand, graceful but contained, reached to meet yours for a formal shake. And thus her lips shared that intoxicatingly good name. 

Click, click, went the pen in your mind. Flowing tip doused in ink, dancing as it wrote the name of your maddening muse.