"A Different Kind of Fantasy" by Kristin Sauma

My cousin tapped me on the head with a book as he strode into the tiny bedroom and opened the curtains so that light pierced my eyes. I grimaced. He cocked his head, exposing a strong jawline, and teased, “What’s your problem?” But it wasn’t a normal familial tease.  It came from a mouth containing the most biting sarcasm and Arabic-stroking tongue I’ve ever encountered in the history of my acquaintances. I looked at him for a moment physically, and made sure to catch the mental image before it left my head: a man. He was becoming a man, and a four-year interval of time hadn’t given me the chance to see every change happen slowly. So perhaps that’s how I could see them better now. Marc had grown magnificently and took full advantage of the height he had inherited as an apparent mutation, like his older and younger brothers, who were also well over six feet tall. And though a hint of geometry was apparent in his form, his physique was not yet a full triangle, but rather sunken in. I wanted to smile at the discrepancy between ego and build, but I was yet pretending to be mad at him and didn’t dare let myself look into his brown eyes. Because they would only lead my vision to an overgrown head of hair, like a sheep, and that would be too much. Fortunately interrupting my comical thoughts, a hand came out in front of my nose and snatched my book from my grasp. Veins on the top of his skin led my eyes up to a playful face and the beginnings of a poorly kept mustache. “Jerk,” I muttered, twisting my mouth the opposite direction of the way it wanted to smile. He soon went on to one of his rants about why exactly he was a jerk and how my words (which he had a talent for using against me) were so hurtful to him. “Marc, I was only kidding,” I cried, but no sooner had I uttered these than he was tossing the book around to his younger brother. Men, I thought, grinning. But then my face became serious…because he was a man. And things could never be the same because of it after that visit. Suddenly thoughts were whirling through my head before I had the chance to re-block them, and I inadvertently tuned all else out. My time was almost over on this visit. And if we did visit again, four more years would only estrange us, force us to act like proper men and women.  Yes, I had forgotten I was becoming a woman, but it reminded me. The thought! No more teasing and crushing on my favorite cousin, Marc, who sat down now, still smiling, to be sucked into the virtual world with which teenage men seem so infatuated. No more of him pinching my cheeks and tussling my hair, because I’d have to wear blush soon and maybe even use a Bumpit. Tussling would not coincide well with that. I stared at my beloved cousin at the desk and hopped  onto his bed next to my other cousin. I realized in the late afternoon heat of Lebanon that never again could I dream of this situation, this experience. So I willed myself to sleep and do it while I could.