I knew where he was though. The desert. Dubai. Probably busy kissing the Sheik’s feet and trying not to cry under his $2,000 sunglasses. And trust me, those Sheikhs? They don’t forget. Nor forgive. I imagined him out there, sweating through his designer blazer, haunted by sandstorms and his terrible decision-making. He’s probably wandering the dunes like a giraffe out from the snow mountain—confused, lost, and strangely tall for no reason. Whatever that means.
And me?
Oh, I was thriving.
Gym. Yes. The place of pain, sweat, and people who look like they’ve eaten nothing but quinoa and resentment for five years. But boy, it felt good. I was back. I had lost fifteen pounds, and let me tell you, abs were trying to say hello again, one confused muscle at a time.
The mirror started to respec
