Skewered meat at Jemaa El-Fnaa Square

Sheets of white polyethylene plastic lined the tables of the food market stalls

A sad excuse for a tablecloth, I thought, but clearly design was not at the forefront of these hustlers’ minds

The stark white fabric juxtaposed the seemingly endless display of colourfully spiced meat sitting atop

It reminded me of an operating room

Where surgeons performed complex procedures, removing chunks of flesh from a patient and discarding them onto medical-grade plastic

I was walking through Jemaa El-Fnaa Square, expecting an invigorating cultural immersion, surrounded by authenticity and an abundance of fresh food

I wanted to feel excitement rumble from the inside of my stomach and surge to my orbitofrontal cortex

Like in indie films, when Scandinavian backpackers go to spice markets in India and discover not only pure asafoetida and the taste of bhaji, but themselves

Instead, I was an easy target for harrowing harassment and emotional manipulation by male Moroccan vendors

Darting my eyes from kiosk to kiosk

I was desperately analysing each stall to determine which had the least atmospheric pressure

I moved with pace and intention so as not to be seen considering one stall over another

There was a hum of nervous energy in the air as the vendors competed for business with persuasion tactics that would be cause for a lawsuit in France

A man’s face appeared right in front of my own

I could smell sweat, and I froze

But it was too late

Our eyes made contact, and it was over

I was a deer, and he pounced on me like a hyena who had not eaten in weeks

As he opened his mouth, revealing a crooked smile that could almost have been mistaken as kind, he began to speak

“Where you from

Aussie girl

Aussie girl

Beautiful girl

I like you

Come here

Do not walk away

Have a look

Here is menu

Best food in Marrakesh

Meat for you

Good meat for you

Sit down”

His second man approached, and I was blocked in

Gripping my bag with such force, my long fingernails dug into my palms, damp with perturbation

I stared at the ground and prayed for the encounter to be over

In that moment, eyes to the floor, I paid closer attention to the attire of these men

I saw a sea of fake Nike tracksuit pants, black socks and ill-fitting foam slides

I recognised this type of man from growing up in Melbourne, a hub for all ethnicities and people

They used to catcall me on the streets and smoke cigarettes outside Flinders Street

I used to laugh in their faces and walk away with confidence

I found them to be totally cringeworthy, and I almost pitied them

I was miles above them on the social hierarchy, and so it never hurt me to behave this way

This type of man never used to scare me

Something was ridiculously wrong with this situation

Here,

I was in their country

Their territory

Their market

Their moment

Was this a cosmic return for my ignorant cultural prestige?

Maybe a karmic lesson is classism?

With a heavy heart, I capitulated and sat down, surrendering to the smooth, cold embrace of the polyethylene

The cook was sewing chunks of meat onto a long, metal skewer, securing the animal’s fate and mine along with it

I waited to see what would arrive

It was as expected: chunks of chicken, beef ribs, lamb and some form of red sausage on a skewer

A singular tear rolled down my cheek

The younger, slightly less awe-inspiring waiter noticed

He approached me with unease, and I spoke

“I am sorry

Désolée

…

This is too much food

I cannot do this

Just leave the poulet

…

S’il vous plaît

Take it away”

His eyes rolled, and I could notice annoyance in his body language

Why did I feel guilty?

No part of me had wanted or chosen this experience

“Fine madame

Just chicken skewer”

As he removed items my plate, I was slightly less alarmed by the quantity and contents that remained in front of me

And I started to breathe normally again

I replayed his short sentence in my mind

Skewer

It was the first time I had heard that word out loud in years

What a bizarre word it was

Where did I know it from?

Had I had this experience before?

I was transported me to a distant memory;

Thailand

The food markets

Broccoli and mussel skewers

Sweet and sour sauce

Singha beer

Saxon

Companionship

Love

It all came flooding back to me

And I felt this sudden pit in the bottom of my stomach

Like that feeling you get when you realise you have taken one too many stops on the train

I longed to be transcended through time to do more than just remember: to relive, to redo

I remembered being so happy then

Walking through the Chilva night market, hand in hand with the love of my life

Surrounded by smiling fishermen, vegetable growers and butchers

So proud of their craft

And politely eager to share their flavours with us

Although the concept was identical, cheap local food grilled on a stick at a market

This time was jarringly different

This time, I was alone

This time, I was frightened

And my God, I missed him so much

I began to cope the only way I knew how

I ate

I broke the rounded bread into little pieces

I slivered off the pieces of yellow spiced chicken that tasted like smoke and fumes

I spooned the tomato side salad into my mouth

And I wolfed down the olives, so heavily coated in oil that I chugged down half a litre of water

Looking down at my now empty plate,

I noticed something I could not before

I almost laughed

It had to be a joke

The plate was delicately painted around the rim with a red rose and a small sentence in black ink

Miss you, love me little and love me long

I could not believe it

I honed in on what I was seeing and knew immediately that I was the rose (my last name) and that I was, in fact, missing him

I ached with longing

Miss you

Miss you

Miss you

I wanted his broad shoulders and sculpted torso to sit beside me

I desperately craved the ability to place my hands on his tattooed thighs under the table, exactly how I had done in Thailand that time

I needed his protection

And I would have done anything in that moment to have him in front of me

I would never be in this situation, travelling alongside a man

Especially that man

He was a force, a character and my friend

Not only was it nauseating that my unwanted plate of murder had provided me with such intense symbolic and textual association

But the reference to love me long was all the confirmation I needed that this was some form of sign

It is a cultural catchphrase, used specifically in Asia

Which he and I had, of course, discovered on our trip to Thailand

I was dumbfounded

The odds of this were impossibly small: skewers in hand at the market, a pang for my ex, a rose lying beside the words “miss you,” and a fleeting nod to Thailand

Maybe I was finding meaning in nothing

Maybe contextually, I would have thought of him in that moment regardless

Who knows

Thankfully, I was too deep in thought to continue to be bothered by my horrific experience mere moments earlier

I wondered if I would ever fully get over him

Saxon

My boy

Because it was evident that I was not yet healed

From him

From me

From Thailand and painful trips like Montenegro

From us

But I remembered that was why I was here, now, in Marrakesh

To deal with parts of my past that I had left untouched

To break the stagnant trajectory of my emotional development

I had so often relied on him

And I truly loved him

I realised that I probably always would

And honestly, that was okay

And so, amid the skewers, the sweat, the rose, the words and the ghost of him, I stood up, trembling, alive, and utterly, beautifully unbroken