By Edwina Khayat
My first creative partner used to know everything about me.
She knew why I did everything I did.
I could anticipate her behaviour.
I was completely transparent to her.
As she was to me.
So we could tell each other anything we wanted.
Sounding stupid was never an issue.
If one of us was singled out by the other for saying something silly, the other had a whole bank of anecdotes ready to go.
There was no winner.
There was no loser.
I shared a room with my sister until we were about 17.
We would go to bed and talk for hours.
My mother would lose her mind over trying to get us to sleep at a decent time.
There was no stopping us.
We would giggle until the early hours of the morning.
We’d come up with ideas.
Solve metaphysical issues.
One day, after a 30 year invasion, Syria announced it was pulling out its soldiers from Lebanon.
We were ecstatic.
Stayed up all night.
Devised a plan.
Our classmates were to help with kicking the Syrians out.
One guy was renowned at school for his farts.
He would make them run for their lives with the smell.
I was the pyromaniac.
My job was to light those farts up.
Create even more damage.
Everyone had a role.
A maths teacher was to bore them to death.
You just had to be there.
Tears were streaming down our faces.
Our muscles were sore from all the laughing.
The plan was completely mad.
We used to have so much fun.
We grew up and drifted apart.
The differences that made our partnership so collaborative increased exponentially.
I miss the laughter.
I was with Fiona the other day.
We had been working until late.
We crashed on my bed.
She started talking.
I thought, oh shut up, I want to sleep.
I found myself answering.
Talking about ideas.
Just as mischievous.
Just as mad.
I’m so excited.