WHEN SALIM takes you to Ramallah for a night out, your companions pepper him with questions about the checkpoints; the prospect of a unity government; if he has a girlfriend. You look out the window, tracing the wall along the hill until your eyes make out the CTL + ALT + DELETE painted in a bold, black font across the cement.
The waiter sets a tray of beers on the table and Salim waves off their questions about his love life. You hope the topic will shift, but Salim is sly, pointing out your silence and drawing the suspicion of everyone at the table. Even as you vehemently deny his existence, a blush spreads across your cheeks as you think of him, the Israeli lover you don’t tell anyone about.