Chez Dalí

Zesty fries chez Dalí, BBQ-flavored spice, covering the skinny ensemble of my fries. An expat hub, smoke rising in the air, wine being poured at the table next to me. Bosoms and bare skin, revealed in someone’s backyard café, chez Dalí.

Arab skater boys, attending the guests, who occasionally answer ‘shukran’ in between wines. Tight denims, cropped shirts, modelled by Arab girls, Skater boys’ heads are turning.

The clientele’s changing, a flock of suits arrived. The valley girls left the seven hills.

The suits are smoking indoors, yikes. Fumes and fragrances tango until they become one, to the rhythmic Bedouin tunes in my ears, I surrender to the surrealistic affairs chez Dalí.