I hardly ever do this—confess my love for married women, let alone wives of brutal Middle East suppressionist dictators. Like almost never. I’m a man of simple tastes. Picnics under sprawling live oaks with nips of crisp Chardonnay. Jean Luc Goddard nights at the vintage theatre downtown. Slow, competent love-making. I’m no totalitarian.
Still, I would be remiss, nay impotent, if I did not take this decisive moment in history to shine brightly in your direction like a lighthouse to a battered skiff, like the moon rising over Lake Assad, whose beauty is surpassed only by another Assad, you my lovely.