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  • We stopped to eat at Midelt. We were driving back from the Sahara, aiming for Fez. I was dazed from the driving, just sitting back while my friend talked to the cafe's owners. Everything oozed past me slow and heavy and warm and I was taking pictures lazily, not joining in. I remember smiling at how the sunlight invaded the fake OMOrays. I remember feeling that sunlight on my face and being content not to be driving. Nor to be talking.

    At some point my silence and distance from the conversation must have annoyed her, or maybe it was my lack of enthusiasm for lunch - the eating habits of the British and the Spanish aren't always compatible - because then we were back in the car, not talking, driving over the Atlas Mountains, through the only cedar forest in Africa, not talking, under a bleeding pink sunset, not talking.

    The argument never happened, just silence. It was like the drive was too magic to ruin with our stuff. Or perhaps our moodiness added something intangible but heavy, and once we'd stopped talking, our voices would have got in the way.

    Hours later we got to Fez, and we were laughing again.
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