Night was not only equal to the day but also just as warm. Breeze from distant countries brought in the scent of citrus orchards. It was as if we were walking in a rich neighbourhood in west Amman. Or maybe it was the reconstructed remnant of a vintage orchard, blocked in with sandstone and lit strategically with theatre lights, in Old Jaffa.
We walked from the top of the hill to the sea and savoured the salted air. We buried our faces in the white blooming foliage of clematis armandii, covering us in a shower of meteorites and drowning our nostrils in their dreamy orange blossom scent.
Up the hill again, and in the garden. We sat under the blossoming cherry trees, observing their white petals fall one by one into the black pond. Just as our present moments are disappearing into the bleak past. We will never forget that night. It was equal to the day. Only that after that, the days will begin to lengthen, and we will have to wake up from this dream. Things will become more clear. More real. More light. Lightheaded from gin and tonic, washed down with salty tears of grateful appreciation muddled by the silent anger and deep sadness that is the inevitable realization that what is never will be again.