I, The Divine

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On an exceptionally hot evening early in August, I stood on the sidewalk in Beirut waiting for a taxi to take me home.

The Mediterranean sun was still blazing and I was about to faint.

I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of bronchitis and was just beginning to realize I should not have gone out.

Beirut is detestable in August.

Even the air is filthy.

I wanted to be home, in my bed.

It was 1976. The city was beginning to look damaged.

I could feel the ripening sun burn my skin, pale from having spent most of the summer indoors.

I was too skinny, my stepmother said.

Too sickly.

I wore a black linen dress.

The linen was perfect for the weather, but the color was not.

The dress was covered with tiny colorful flowers, a happy motif.

The black was a stark contrast to my skin.

The dress exposed my shoulders, which the sun attacked mercilessly.

Merciless. That evening was merciless.

I watched the cars drive by. No taxis in sight.

I felt a little dizzy, cursing my luck for having to be in Beirut instead of the mountains.

I was sixteen. I should have been invincible.

A taxi approached. It was full. Five passengers already in it.

I felt crushed.

The dress was French, bought from a catalogue. I loved it.

I looked at the sea behind me, oblivious to the play of colors.