pestilence

"They fancied themselves free, and no one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences..."

He continued reading to himself Camus' work, which was resting on his lap. I studied him studying the text. His eyes, wide open, lashes unwavering, were completely engulfed. His body hunched forward, head hung over the literature, while his legs were crossed, one bent underneath the other, foot resting on its side. He was so still as if time paused to understand the plight of Oran and prayed for its longevity.

Time moved again when he turned the page. I watched him intently because I could not understand why I wanted to watch him. Why his shape and form mattered; why understanding his motions, especially those that involved me, mattered. Motionless, I still did not comprehend anything. Why did he love me?

He turned suddenly catching me off guard, disarming me with a smile--it spread across his face completely consuming his cheeks, then, his eyes. Quickly it spread to me. I smiled back helplessly, feeling absurd and yet so happy to have caught this disease, this love.