Trillium Book Awards Author Reading 2015

A Love Story

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Kurdistan in Spring

The man said, “don’t play with my heart,” then wiped his tears and walked out of the exhibition, the one that can easily be imagined.

He was absorbed in her, in her tenderness, charm, liveliness. She was tempting, bitter and overpowering like the liquor he craved for. She had the enticing attraction he has been looking for, the resistance that he desired to conquer through the wealth, fame and power his position at the government had offered him. He was one of the many she had kindly welcomed to her exhibition.

She was a piece of poetry, rhythmical, delicate, and beyond his understanding. He tried arranging beautiful words to make them sound appealing. He loved his writing but somehow in his head someone told him that they sounded stupid. He hid the writing by which he wanted to impress her. She was a puzzle and he was an unfitting piece in her life no matter how hard he modified his look.

It was a battle for her to decide about a stranger who had been observing her and her life for so long. She who her painting was the source of inspiration, her lips the fountain of life, her eyes the lights of her soul, her hair the touch of breeze, decided to offer him a chance to prove himself, convince her that he is a different man.

He thought his attempts seemed trivial to her. He could hear her belittling his status. He wanted to prove he existed and he was significant regardless of the extent she ignored him. He bought some lovers. She didn’t see him and his girls.

He touched her defencelessness when he found her crying lonely at the grave of an eight year old boy. He saw her pain, her vulnerability, her wound, her buried offspring.

He boasted to enemies, who looked like friends to him, that he will win her, that there is nothing he cannot achieve. She heard that boast.

“Don’t play with my heart,” she said and run away.

He didn't hear what her lips said when they moved.

Ava Homa

The views expressed in the Writer-in-Residence blogs are those held by the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of Open Book: Toronto.

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