The Book of Queens by Joumana Haddad
Beds. Two-by-two meters of heaven and hell, where so many promises are made and broken. A tumultuous ocean of ups and downs, yeses and nos. Fouad was our bed's iceberg and I was its Titanic. Which one of us sank the other? ... Don't say sex. Sex is just a cover up. A cover up for that desperate search of oneness, that longing to forget our intrinsic loneliness. If Fouad was a thoughtful lover, would I have still cheated on him?







