Red & Shiny

It was turning out to be a not very good day. The magazine that should have gone to bed three days ago and here I am past 7 still working on it. By no fault of my own. The worst kind of bad situation: the one you played a part no bigger than that of being dumped unceremoniously into the midst of it all.

I was at the end of my tether and the only thing that kept me going was the thought that 'it can't get any worse'. I know I know ... it was one of those days.

Preceeding a long list of same-day mishaps was my car not bieng with me, as some wise-ass had revered his car into Baba's and Baba had borrowed my car. Arafaat having gone home early, I was stranded in Media City and didn't really feel like forking out 50 Dhs for a cab ride back home.

I'm one of those people who - when miserable- find some sick pleasure in miserablizing (I know that's not a word) everyone around them. And so my phone call to Arafaat asking him to come pick me up. (Ie, drive 30 minutes from Oud Metha to Media City and then 50 minutes back the same way through rush-hour traffic).

Instead of grumping on why I can't just take a cab instead of making HIM drive back and forth for one hour, he agreed. Hmm.

He said he was coming to Sheikh Zayed Road for something anyway and would pick me up after that. What's he got at Sheikh Zayed road? He can't tell me just yet, he says. It's nothing bad, he assures me. Something quite good, he smiles.

I'm ripe for a hissy fit just now, but I'm too tired and some little part of me feels guilty at the thought of picking on Arafaat for my bad day.

He calls me when he's down and I get up to leave. My boss wants to have a quick word with me. Fifteen minutes later, Arafaat calls again and I tell him I'll be five mroe minutes. My boss takes fifteen more. Third time he calls, I run.

I run down and it's almost eight and I know I won't be able to cook dinner when I get home. Not becasue I'll be too tired, but becasue by the time I'm done cooking, it'll be ten or even later. I know I'll have to order out and that always makes me feel inadequate as a wife. Add to that the fact that my magazine will be a couple of days late and the feeling of inadequacy extends from my wifely duties to my professional responsibilities.

I'm not a Rainbow Brite as I emerge from the over-airconditioned lobby of Building 9, DMc and into the humid, muggy Dubai dusk. I scan the roundabout and there's no sign of Arfi: no blue S2K taking a sharp turn round the roundabout and screeching to halt for me to run clippety-clopetty-clop to.

None. Nada. Zilch.

I can feel myself lose control. A whole day of minor mishaps amplified into disasters of epic proprtions. Something goes very hot where my head meets my neckand then ...

... a red car emerges fomr the parking lot. It shines despite the dusk (or maybe becasue of it). The setting sun lends it a golden aura. It shines. It sparkles. It pulls out of the parking lot ... sleek and sexy and red. It moves like a wish, casting a magic spell on the bystanders. Three men gesturign animatedly stop and turn around and look. Three girls huddled together crane their necks.

It stops infront of me. All shiny and red.

I run.

I drop my bags.

On the concrete pavement.

It's shining. It's red.

It's mine.

It's mine.

Something hot gives way to something cool and my eyes well up. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach while my heart flutters to my throat.

Just when you think a day can't get worse, something happens that turns it on it's end.

I run my fingers over the smooth bonnet and drop to my knees to fondle the bumper. My fingers graze some stone chips in the otherwise flawless paintjob. I frown. It's mine. It's JUSt become mine and it has no business having stone chips.

I think I am going to have a heart attack. I think I have dies and gone to heaven. It's THAT beautiful.

Just when I begin thinking there's nothing that could have made me happier this day, the driver's seat door opens and Arafaat comes out. As he hands me the keys, I know I'm wrong.

It’s Arafaat.

No matter how red, mo matter how shiny. No matter what.

What I got is but a reflection of the one who gave it. A mere shadow.

I’m welling up in the black leather power seats, clutching the steering wheel with audio control buttons. People look and then are left staring at nothingness as I whiz past at 160. Inside, the AC rids me of the muggy feeling.

I’m crying as I drive it back.