looking timidly around the room.
A guy approaches, greets me in
Greek: “Geia sou. Xereis na milas ellinika?”
“Hello. No, I don’t speak Greek.”
Responding to the question, which
I understand, but don’t feel confident
enough to reply to in my mother’s tongue.
Outside Mum’s family
I have never felt Cypriot enough.
I remember back to Cyprus and how I even
felt like an outsider within my own family.
“I’m Christos, it’s good to meet you,”
he says, reaching out an open hand.
He wears a plain white T-shirt and light
blue jeans.
“I’m Mike or Michalis,” I reply,
embarrassed by my lack of language
and how handsome he is.
His hair is almost black and so is his
thick beard; his eyebrows nearly meet.
His eyes are so dark I can see myself
in them. His firm grip and eye contact
remain. “Michalis,” he says, with a wink.
“A good Greek name.”
Someone calls him away: “Éla, Christo.”
He politely excuses himself, leaving me
alone again. I slip away, unnoticed.
I Want to Be a Pink Flamingo
Pink. Definitely pink.
I want my feathers to match
