conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for a story with the title 'All the Rivers'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All the Rivers
  The smile still hangs on my lips. Where is what going? Before I have time to ask, she's back at the noisy faucet. "Hilmi, Hilmi, Hilmi." She rustles something close to the mouthpiece. "Hilmi did this, Hilmi said that. It's been maybe two months now"—her voice is briefly lost in a sharp clash of stainless steel—"that all I hear from you is Hilmi, Hilmi, Hilmi."
  Beyond the initial shock and the stinging insult, something in me is also surprised by how transparent I am. How does she always see right into me? My clever big sister, who, even from the other side of the world on a transatlantic phone call, can be so painfully accurate.
  But she quickly shoots back: "This Hilmi guy, I mean...it's like he's completely taken over. I can't talk to you about anything else, ever since you met—"
  Everything goes quiet for a minute and only the cordless phone's buzz comes through. After a moment she says, "Wait a second, I'm going outside."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At night I burst out of sleep abruptly, my eyes open blindly in the dark. The voiceless cry that escaped my lips still echoes inside me like a scream. My heart pounds in my chest, in my ears, in my temples. It takes a few seconds to regain my sense of reality. Only when I detect the murmuring and groans from under the blanket do I suddenly realize that what shocked me out of sleep was not my dream but Hilmi, folded up here next to me, his head buried in the blanket, talking in his sleep. His face is strained and he shakes his head as if he's arguing with someone.
  This isn't the first time. I've heard him before, muttering an unintelligible series of syllables in Arabic in the middle of the night, sometimes even laughing. But now his speech is feverish. He grunts and stops, spits out words in harsh, defiant, teeth-gritting Arabic, then pushes back with a pained grimace. His forehead is wrinkled with worry or shame or insult. I lean over his face. Beneath his angrily furrowed brow, through the delicate skin of his eyelids, I can see his eyes darting anxiously back and forth.
  I caress his neck softly, slowly. "Shhhh...Everything's okay," I whisper, calming the storm. "Everything's okay."
  His face looks beaten and miserable. I keep watching him a moment longer, my hand rising and falling on his chest, observing his breaths as they grow longer and deeper. After a quick glance at the alarm clock—3:40 A.M.—I sink back into my pillow with a heavy sigh.
  I lie on my back with my eyes open. It's raining outside. Drops slide down the window and their shadows are projected on the ceiling. I think about how to tell him in the morning. ("What was it, Hilmi? What were you dreaming? Do you remember?") I wonder how to tell him that he was grunting and murmuring so much at night that his nightmarish voice penetrated my sleep and shocked me awake. I hear myself saying that it must have been his emotional Arabic, the Arabic words that entered my ears as something dangerous ("At first I thought I was dreaming") and I wonder what he will say. How will he respond to learning that even his close, intimate voice, his beloved voice, becomes strange and threatening, bloodcurdling, in the dark? What will he say when I tell him it took me a long time to fall asleep again? That I lay in the dark staring at the ceiling and thought about how we're not really as alone as we would like to believe. Even in this huge city, far from home ("even in this room, in this bed") it isn't just the two of us lying here.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last two paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My taxi was coming at eight, in less than two hours. Where would we find a photography shop or a booth now? Or a tourist to snap a picture of us? I started crying about the stupid camera and flaky Hilmi who didn't know that digital cameras had to be charged. My angry, frustrated sobs liberated the other ones, the ones I could no longer hold back.
  The invisible eye focused on our cheeks pressed together, the tails of his curls falling over my eyes.