My journey traverses backward in time, spanning over five years ago. Those were the days when I was a fresh graduate from college, and yet, jobs seemed to elude me as much as the shadow does from the sun. The monotonous daily routine wrapped me in its heavy cloak, where I found profound boredom and difficulty.
One day, I directed my heavy steps toward the nearby tobacco vendor. I purchased from him only two cigars, as if they were the breath that could illuminate the darkness I lived in. I mustered courage and directed myself to the roof of our house, where I would secretly indulge, there on the roof, the moments of clandestine smoking took on a sense of sanctity.
My father was a strict man, adhering to his principles, he listed smoking under the prohibitions within the boundaries of our home. Not just that, but he detested the thought of his son, whom he always saw as an embodiment of his dreams, becoming a passenger of cigarettes.
In that moment, as I was immersed in the sea of smoke ignited by the first cigar, my sister Salma appeared unexpectedly like a sudden shadow. She saw me and I suspect she sniffed the scent of the smoke that permeated the air. As quick as lightning, I hid the cigar behind my back, painting a hollow smile on my face, puzzled by her sudden presence on the rooftop.
My sister Salma, four years my junior. She shares a brotherly relationship with me like any siblings in the world, fluctuating between love and conflict, laughter and arguments. That day, she was donned in her long nightgown, which flowed over her slender frame like white silk, adorned with drawings of turquoise flowers dancing against the white fabric backdrop, giving her an innocent appearance yet reflecting a simple elegance.
Salma looked at me with eyes ablaze with suspicion, and asked the anticipated question: "Have you been smoking?!" My response was swift, sharp as an arrow: "No". But she countered firmly: "No, you were smoking, the scent of the smoke is clear."
I continued to deny it, but she insisted, certain that I had engaged in that minor transgression. Then she asked for something unexpected, she wanted to smell my breath, and then I knew she would undoubtedly sense the smell of smoke. Terror swept over me, fearful that she would uncover my secret and relay it to our father.
I gathered my courage and confessed: "Honestly, yes, I was smoking. I was feeling down and thought of trying smoking, and this is my first time." Salma responded with understanding: "Okay, if it was just an experiment, try not to get used to this and become an addict." I promised her that I would not get addicted to smoking, but she surprised me with an unexpected reaction. She declared: "I also want to try it with you!"
She released those words simply, as if she was asking to share a cup of tea, and without any hesitation, she settled next to me, casting herself on the cool rooftop tiles, expressing her solid presence in this difficult situation.
I told her innocently, trying to warn her: "First, your clothes will get dirty from the ground and you'll be scolded by our mother, and secondly, luckily for you, I have a second cigarette."
As I was attempting to light the second cigarette for her, Salma had lifted her long dress so it wouldn't touch the ground, revealing up to her waist. Through this simple movement, her smooth legs and her white underwear became visible.
I gave her a brotherly piece of advice, saying: "Salma, there's a saying: 'She wanted to darken her eyes with kohl but ended up blinding them'". Salma didn't understand the hint, so I clarified with a laugh: "We were worried about your white dress getting dirty from the tiles, but even your white underwear can get soiled quickly from the dust."
Salma's face turned red with anger, but she responded indifferently: "Give me my cigarette and don't worry about my clothes, or else I'll take off my pants."
Salma took hold of her cigarette, drawing her first breath from it with an ease that spoke of familiarity. The puffs followed one after another with an air of professionalism. I remarked, rather astounded, "You little rascal, it's clear this isn't your first time."
Salma admitted candidly, "Indeed, it's not my first time. Sometimes I smoke with some of my girlfriends."
I was utterly taken aback, imagining myself to be the sole transgressor in this household! We conversed on various topics until her cigarette was no more, deciding then to head home before our absence became conspicuous.
As Salma rose to her feet, a patch of dust clung to her white panties. I playfully swatted it away, telling her, "I told you the dust would cling, but don't worry, my hand has taken care of it."
Salma laughed, and I was filled with a delightful sensation. Today, I felt, my sister had become more a friend than a kin. A part of me wished to lay my hand on her panties again - her bottom was soft.
I pulled a pack of gum from my pocket and handed her a piece, "So that the smell doesn't linger in our mouths, Salma."
Salma responded, "But the smell might have clung to our clothes."
I moved closer to Salma to ascertain whether the scent of smoke had clung to her clothes. Instead, I was enveloped in her sweet perfume intermingled with the natural scent of her body. It was a sensation unfamiliar to me, yet it intoxicated me, stirring a desire to linger in its embrace.
