Alaa Choucair writes: That’s how we are killed (The beautiful and the frog)

How can a beautiful kiss a frog?
He smiled at the naivety of his childhood, wondering: How much loss would make a beautiful girl kiss a frog?
Then isn’t the idea some anomaly?

With his fingers, he moved the little boredom screen, he stops at her photo laughing on his gloom and standing near her fancy car, not remembering how and when they become friends on these pages, while their friendship is impossible on the contradictions of reality.

He pressed her name and moved her pictures in places that he had not visited in his life and her laugh is glamorous and shiny like her nail polish.

He hesitated to write “Good Evening”. The moment didn’t help him saying something different.
He speculated that she would tell him that her laughter was nothing but a mask and she would tell her misery with her unjust family or her traitor lover.
He will take the role he feels superior when he absorbs it and is able to explain her feelings more than she does.
He wondered:
Why can we not hear our wives’, sisters’ and mothers’ feelings like other strangers?
He regretted the traditional greeting he gave. Well, a beautiful like her arrives every day hundreds of good evenings.

He threw his little phone and then lit a cigarette and sneaked out of bed towards the window. He had a cold sting when he opened a small crack and arranged for tomorrow’s issues.
He will take his salary and then start his usual cycle with the beginning of each month, the water bill and then the electricity bill and the phone and then go to the bank to pay his monthly payment,
(How much is left for this damn loan to end?) He realized that he had to visit the bank more than thirty times.

He pulls a deep breath of smoke and puffs with conquer when he mentions the letter of grocery (rice, sugar, oil), so he has to erect in the line of humiliation, remember, mutter and bread I have to stand there too.

He estimated how much would left to him, and then thought if the kindergarten manager had not stopped his wife’s salary citing her losses as a result of the coronavirus holiday.

He was taken by car lights at night, his dream and his lump, dreamed of her in his youth to practice his recklessness, and remain his impossible hope that could protect him from the humiliation of public transport.
Suddenly, the coat, yes, a coat for his wife, remembered how he forgot that he had given his promise a whole month.

I’m going to sell our wedding ring and I’m not going to pay water, electricity and phone bills, with long expletives.

He raised his cigarette to his mouth, and he looked at his inhale when he heard several gunshots fired and felt a sticky liquid flowing down his forehead.

His wife screamed before he fell, and in his imaginations, a beloved princess approached a frog with her beautiful mouth and chomped on his head with her teeth. His limbs floundered out of her fingers and his blood flow stickily on her lips before coming all over him.


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