He was gorgeous.  He had a very sincere and earnest look about him, and yet boyish, slender.  I was relatively certain that he was an Arab, but he walked that line where he might have been Indian, as in from Asia, not Arapaho or some such.  His hair was short, black, and thick, his skin like caramel, or maybe a bit darker.  I found him stunning. 
    A group of us went to some kind of carnival or something and the parking was atrocious.  Once we got parked, we found ourselves up a steep hill, like at the Presidio of Monterey where the fog comes into the bay land and people on the hill look down into the clouds.  It was like that after we parked, the clouds intermingled with taller, denser buildings than Monterey, but the same kind of things.  We began to walk down.
    We were in a small room with other people, visiting I think.  He was talking with an elderly man about things that were on his mind, dropping clues that assured me he was an Arab.  At some point he said, offhand at the end of a sentence, "when I walk the Wall."
    I stared at him in amazement.  "You walk the Wall?"
    He stared back.  "What do you know of 'walk the Wall'?"
    I smiled and said, "You'd be surprised what I know."  He stared silently with amazement on his face now.
    "Atekelam Arabeea,"  I told him.
    "What Arabeea?"
    "Arabeea."  If I were intelligent, I'd have said Iraqia, but I wasn't thinking well.  "Anee d'rassa Arabeea."  God my Arabic had deteriorated, that was awful.  And I should have added f'jaeesh.  He kept staring.  "Arabeeati laesa jaeid,"  I giggled nervously.  No shit.
    I found myself rubbing his shoulders and back, in bed with him, but still all tingly with expectancy, so we hadn't gone far yet.  It was light, inside and out.  White sheets.  This was a family home.  I got the feeling he was a brother.  In fact, I think we had been going to the carnival with his sister and others.
    Why did I think of him as some kind of soldier?  Iraqi?  Lebanese?  I don't know.
    We were kissing, becoming enveloped in each other, our legs tangling together with the sheets getting caught between.  I was entering bliss.  His sister came in, a tall and lovely Spanish-looking woman with thick black hair done up into a chignon, interrupting us.  She was embarrassed, but managed a weak smile and eased out again.  We sighed.  We'd better get up.
    I was at a family event, feeling familiar and yet a stranger.  I must have been an in-law.  Yet this house I recognized as my Granny's.  This terrible little blonde woman for whom French was the native language was being abusive to everyone, especially the children.  Most especially her step-daughter.  I think this awful woman was an in-law too.  She said the nastiest things with a smug smirk on her face.  I got the child aside later and told her, "Never listen to that woman.  She is very wrong and hateful.  You are beautiful and smart and everyone knows it."
    Finally, after listening to more of her abuse, I snapped the last straw and grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head, turning her face up at me.  "I can't tell.  Are you an adult?"  Her face was indeed very childlike, when not twisted into a sneer.  I began to doubt.  I dragged her all about the house asking people if this horrid thing were an adult.  Most everyone looked on shocked, unanswering.  Finally I got an affirmative answer out of someone, so I dragged her outside.  She didn't struggle, just sagged, sniveling.  I was so enraged, but didn't know what to do next.  I lifted her and dropped her on the ground, slightly on her right side.  I lifted her again and dropped her, this time slightly on her left side.  One of the women ran out of the house protesting.
    "I thought this was an adult."  I said to the woman.   "Well, isn't she?"  The protesting woman did not answer.  "Is she?"  I demanded.
    "That's not an adult.  That is an it!"  She ran back into the house.
    I looked down at the sniveling, muddy creature.  I couldn't think what to do next.
    I woke up.
 

Quick-and-Dirty Companion Journal 
  
Names 
& 
Terms 
 
I realize now that he looked like facter would look if you changed his coloring.
 
I have no conscious memory right now about "walking the Wall."  But my unconscious remembers, obviously. 
  
 I speak Arabic.
What Arabic?
Arabic.  Iraqi.
I studied Arabic. 
In the Army.
 
My Arabic is bad.