Chapter 5
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 25 min read
held up a white linen shirt against myself as I looked in the full-size,
jewel-encrusted mirror propped up in the corner of my dorm room and
shook my head. No, white is too basic. I held up the red top I got on an
impromptu shopping spree with Afreen a few weeks before. Great color, but
it showed too much cleavage. I sighed. My bed was scattered with outfit
options I hadn’t yet tried on. I just couldn’t decide what to wear for our
date. Not a date. Just a movie. Movie date. Nope, not a date. Just watching a
movie together. Why couldn’t I get it together? Just looking at the mess I’d
made was giving me a headache. How long would it take to fold all of that
and have them back neatly in the closet?
I picked up my phone and tapped on the screen to check the weather
forecast. It was 19 degrees Celsius – not bad, warmer than I expected. Just
then, the soulful call to Asr prayer filled my room from the Muslim Pro app
on my phone. I walked into the washroom to perform my ablution as I
heard the Arabic words, but my head automatically translated the words
into English: Come to Prayer. Come to Salvation.
After my four raka’ats, the series of movements during prayer, I seemed
to have gotten more clarity on my outfit choice. I walked to the closet and
brought out a pair of grey jeggings I’d never worn before. I paired it with a
black bodysuit off my bed, and added small golden hoop earrings. My hair
was tied into a bun at the nape of my neck and was wrapped in a blue jersey
scarf. I was tying the laces of my high-top Converse when my phone started
ringing, and because I hadn’t saved his number – even after he’d called to
“check up on me” last night and earlier today to ask if I was “still good for
later?” – I hesitated a bit before picking up.
“Yeah, hello?” I said into the phone.
“Hey,” his voice in my ear gave me butterflies in my tummy. Stop it,
Fa’iza. That’s the devil tickling you. I thought about what my Quran
recitation tutor used to say when we were growing up to my older cousins
who said Brad Pitt in Mr. and Mrs. Smith gave them ‘butterflies in their
tummy.’ “I’m in the lobby,” he said. Was I losing it completely, or could I
actually hear the smile in his voice?
“Oh, okay. Coming down,” I replied, wondering why my heart was
beating faster than normal.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. This bodysuit accentuated my
tiny waist. Not bad, miss, I thought to myself. I looked more confident than
I felt, and in typical Fa’iza fashion, I grabbed an oversized denim jacket to
feel more comfortable. Still, I couldn’t stop looking into the elevator mirror,
wondering if I looked good. When the elevator door opened on the ground
floor, my eyes scanned the lobby, past the front desk and the brightly
colored armchairs in front of the fireplace, and I saw Ahmad standing by
the bar stools just behind the pool table, with an expression I could not quite
read coloring his face. It disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, and he
started smiling more broadly as we closed the distance between us.
“You look good,” he said. He was wearing a taupe leather jacket with a
black shirt underneath.
“Thanks.”
There was a twinkle in his eye. “You ready? I am parked right outside,”
he asked, and I nodded. “After you,” he opened the door for me and waited
as I walked past him. Oh, how chivalrous, Ahmad Babangida. Who would
have thought?
Outside, he walked ahead of me, and I noticed black leather gloves
sticking out of his back pocket. I didn’t think much of it until he stopped,
climbed a huge black power bike and passed me a black and silver helmet.
My mouth slowly hung open as my eyes darted from the helmet to his face.
“Are – are you mad?” I stuttered. I couldn’t get over how magnificent and
dangerous the bike looked, and with him sitting on it, it was a scene straight
out of a James Bond movie.
“What?” He asked, failing to hide his amusement.
“I’m not getting on this –” I clenched my fingers into a fist as I searched
for the right word to show my disdain, “– on this thing.”
“Well, it’s the fastest way to get there. You know how the traffic gets
during the weekend.”
I didn’t know and honestly, it didn’t matter. I would rather arrive late
than in pieces. I shook my head no. “I don’t care,” looking at the silver
headlight cover as it gleamed in the sunlight. “This is too dangerous.”
“You can trust me,” he looked from my eyes to my lips and back into
my eyes again. “I’ll be very careful. I promise.”
I looked away as I sighed out loudly, and finally took the helmet he was
holding out to me. I strapped on the helmet and fastened it tightly. He
watched me; then he put on his matte black helmet as I got on the bike,
delicately balancing my feet on the silver foot pegs.
“Are you okay?” He asked as he wore his leather gloves. His voice was
slightly muffled under the helmet.
“Yeah,” I said. I was nervous, but I couldn’t deny that I was beginning
to get excited.
“Hold on tight,” he cautioned. I felt the blood drain from my face, and it
suddenly dawned on me that the passenger had to hold onto the rider. I held
onto his shoulders as he leaned forward, and the bike came on. Within
seconds, we zoomed off through the streets. I leaned in as we swerved,
making low right turns and moving fast in traffic. I watched the buses and
cars we passed, and it felt like I was seeing the city through a different lens
like I was a first-time visitor. The buildings were beautiful, and the art
sculptures and food trucks made it feel like a moving portrait, and we made
the most beautiful painting.
* * *
We shared a large bag of popcorn while we watched the movie, and after, as
we dumped the 3D glasses in the recycle bin, we decided to get dinner. He
told me about an excellent restaurant a few blocks away. As we approached
his Kawasaki bike, I grumbled jokingly about being on the bike.
“Well, you’re dressed for it,” he teased as he handed me my helmet.
“And I know you enjoyed the ride.” He was right. Once I got over the initial
feeling of being scared, I did enjoy the ride.
When the bike slowed down and gradually came to a halt in front of a
red brick building, the outdoor patio was unoccupied and above the
entrance to the restaurant was a placard that had the name Casa Madera in
cursive black letters. My ears were buzzing from the wind, and I felt
slightly lightheaded as I took my hands off his back and gingerly got off the
black bike. He removed his helmet, set it on his bike and alighted in one
easy movement.
“Here. Let me help you with that,” he said as I struggled to unclip the
helmet’s harness from around my neck. His fingers went over mine, and
with a soft click, he unfastened my helmet. I removed it and handed it to
him, watching as he clipped it in place next to his.
“How long have you had a bike?” I asked as we walked towards the
restaurant.
“I got my first bike when I was seventeen,” his hands went into the
pockets of his faded denim trousers, his grey timberland boots crunching
the gravel entrance as we entered the restaurant. “So, you’ve never actually
been on a bike?”
I shook my head.
“Really? Even in Abuja?” he seemed surprised. Powerbike races and car
drifting were big things in Abuja. My friends from school often invited me,
but I knew my mother too well to even ask for permission to go with them.
She didn’t think any responsible girl from a good home should be found in
such rowdy places. My brothers, of course, didn’t even need to ask
permission; they went to the driving range, smoked shisha, and screamed
along with everyone else and their upbringing was never questioned.
“Good to see you again, Ahmad,” a tall, tanned man with a Mexican
accent welcomed us into the restaurant. As he spoke, I was distracted by the
waterfall simulation behind him.
“Hello, Javier,” Ahmad said. I could sense a familiarity between them
and wondered if they’d known each other for long.
“I don’t know why you bother making a reservation, when you can just
walk in and have your favorite table,” Javier said with a smile, looking at
the white monitor in front of him.
“It’s a restaurant, not McDonald’s,” Ahmad laughed.
Javier laughed with him as he led the way into the brown-walled
restaurant with life-size paintings of surrealistic figures on the wall. We
removed our jackets as we got settled into the plush velvet seats. As I
looked around the sparse restaurant, Javier was telling Ahmad: “Your
waitress will be with you shortly.”
We were quiet for a few seconds, and then, “so, full disclosure,” Ahmad
started as he leaned forward, his hands on the table. “That was my second
time watching that movie.”
My eyes widened as I fiddled with the neckline of my top as I looked at
him. “What do you mean?”
“I saw it as soon as it was released,” he explained, his eyes moving
from my hands on my neck and back to my face. “I just wanted to spend
time with you.”
“Hello, guys. My name is Paige, and I’ll be your waitress today.” We
were interrupted by a red-haired girl about my age, wearing a black dress
and heels, who handed us the menus, filled our glasses with water and
notified us of the Chef’s special.
I pretended to be reading the menu, but my mind was going over what
Ahmad had said: I just wanted to spend time with you. It was such a simple
sentence, but there was something about the way his voice dropped when he
said it and the intensity in his eyes when they met mine. And that
godforsaken accent made it sound like so much more than a platonic get-
together. I had almost forgotten about the waitress’s presence when I heard
her voice again: “would you like a few minutes with the menu before
placing your orders?”
Ahmad looked at me from behind his menu.
“Yes, please,” I said, looking up at her.
“Of course,” she smiled. “Any drinks to get you started?”
“Water’s fine,” I said.
“I’m good with water, too. Thanks, Paige,” Ahmad closed the menu and
placed it on the table.
I kept my eyes on the menu, trying to figure out what to eat, pretending
not to feel his stare. It was always hard trying to filter out the halal food
options. Everything that looked good had bacon bits or ham in it, or it was
sauteed in lard.
I looked up at him, “Why is your menu closed?”
“I know what I want,” he said, looking at me. It was quiet in the
restaurant except for the faint clink of cutlery and soothing jazz over the
hidden speakers. I know what I want rang in my ear. It could mean two
different things. He explained, “I always get the same thing when I come
here.”
Okay, so I imagined it. He was talking about the food. Just the food.
Paige came back with a notepad and a pen in her hand, ready to take our
orders.
“Is your meat halal?” The steaks looked good, but I needed to know if it
was permissible for me to eat according to Islamic standards.
“Um – I don’t believe it is. But I can confirm with the chef, if you’d
like,” she said and started heading towards the kitchen.
“No, don’t worry about it,” I stopped her, opening the menu again, “I’ll
have the Butternut Squash ravioli, then.” Muslims always have backup
orders when eating out.
“That’s a good vegetarian option,” she quipped as she scribbled it down,
then turning to look at Ahmad: “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have medium-rare Steak and Prawns,” he said, handing her the
menu.
“You want mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus to come with it?”
“Always,” he looked down as his phone lit up, but he ignored it.
“You don’t care that the meat isn’t halal?” I asked once she was out of
sight
He shook his head. “It’s beef. I say bismillah like we’re supposed to
before eating. Doesn’t that make it halal?”
I thought about it. Yes, we start every activity with the name of God,
even eating. “I guess. But we’re supposed to look for halal whenever we
can.”
“So you only eat where it explicitly says halal?”
“Yup,” I had never even considered the alternative. “When I’m not sure
if the meat is halal, I go for vegetarian or seafood options.” It was one of
the things I noticed Umma did when we traveled together.
“Interesting,” he said, taking a cup of water to his lips. “What are you
studying?” He leaned back, but his eyes followed every movement I made.
“Um – Law,” I said, suddenly aware of my hands clasping and
unclasping on my thighs.
“Why Law?” his voice dropped again.
Why Law? I asked myself. No one had ever asked me that. Ever since I
was in secondary school, my family always joked about how I would take
after my father. I think I just subconsciously imbibed that, and I went with it
without too much thought. “I guess I’ve always been interested in
protecting rights,” I replied. I knew immediately that sounded lame but he
nodded slowly, like he was trying to understand.
Our food arrived. It looked delicious and tasted even better. “You
studied law too, right?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Afreen.
“I dropped out in my first year,” he cut into his steak, “switched to
Interaction Design at Cambridge. I just finished my Masters.”
I wondered what my parents would think if I decided to switch majors.
Not that I wanted to, because it had grown on me, but I wondered
nevertheless. By the time we made it out of the restaurant, it was already
dark outside.
“Uh oh, I have bad news for you,” he said as he zipped up his jacket.
“What is it?” I looked around the empty parking lot.
“It looks like it’s going to rain,” looking up at the full moon
illuminating the skyline.
And he was right. We were on the bike for barely thirty seconds when it
started drizzling. Little at first, but then it got heavier. We were soon
completely drenched. The raindrops had formed multiple stings of water
falling off my helmet, and I could barely see. At the traffic lights, he raised
the glass visor of his helmet to talk to me, even though I could barely make
out the words he was saying with the wind howling. “It’s dangerous to keep
riding,” he wiped the visor with gloved hands, “the roads are too wet.”
I nodded, my grip getting tighter on his shoulder.
“We’re a minute from my place,” he continued. With the wind blowing
so hard, it was getting harder and harder to hear him. “Let’s go there until
the rain subsides.”
“Okay,” I said, shouting so he could hear me. I hadn’t realized that they
lived so close to this part of town. I knew Aunty Mami was in Nigeria, but
it will be nice to surprise Afreen.
We rode carefully until we made a left at the tallest skyscraper I’d seen
in this part of town. As we approached the doors to its underground
parking, they rolled upwards. We rode through the brightly lit multi-storey
parkade and stopped at an empty stall. He powered down the bike and we
got off.
“Where’s this place?” I asked, looking around. My voice was low, but
the slight tremor was noticeable.
“I live here,” he said as he removed his helmet. He stopped when he
saw the confused expression on my face.
“What? You said we were going home.”
“No, I said my place.”
“I thought home –” my words failed me. I had assumed that we were
going to his parent’s house.
“Fa’iza, I don’t live with my parents.”
“But your room – the room –” I was stuttering, remembering when I
walked into his room when he was asleep.
“Oh, the weekend you saw me there?” He ran his hands through his
damp hair, “I had just come back from the UK the night before, so I went to
spend the weekend with them.”
“Oh.” Most people don’t move out of their parent’s house in northern
Nigeria until they got married, so it was a surprise for me.
“You’re shivering. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes before you
catch a cold.” He said with concern in his eyes. “Fa’iza?” he called out to
me softly when I didn’t answer; his voice was almost a whisper.
“I – um, I –” I swallowed. “I just want to go back to the r–residence,”
my voice cracked as I was shivering so much from the cold.
“Okay, I’ll drop you back at the residence,” he said reassuringly,
maintaining the distance I had put between us. “But if you stay in these wet
clothes any longer, you will catch a cold.”
“I dunno – I –” my voice trailed off. There was a pause – a heavy one. I
heard my teeth chattering.
“Fa’iza?” he asked again, his voice low. “Look at me.”
I peeled my gaze from the exhaust pipes on his bike and looked up at
him. There he was in his drenched shirt under his jacket, his face wet from
when he had his visor open. “You’re safe with me, Fa’iza. Wallahi. I
swear.” It was so quiet down here and my heart was thumping wildly in my
chest. He sighed and ran his left hand through his hair again. “Trust me.”
I reluctantly met his eyes. He’s Aunty Mami’s son. Of course, I was safe
with him. It was just that there were many stories I’d heard growing up that
led to questions like why was she alone with him? No one ever asks why did
he do that to her? That was the sad reality in conservative societies like
ours – the girl was always expected to know better, to be the responsible
one, and to not put herself in compromising situations.
I nodded, and we walked together into the elevator. Ahmad called it to
his floor and a green light blinked beside it as the gentle whir of the elevator
going upwards filled the silence. As the elevator stopped, an automated
female voice announced: “Penthouse.” The doors opened, and we walked
out. The floor was dimly lit, and the army green carpet we walked on
stopped the sounds of our footsteps from echoing until we reached a brown
door with PH 2 written in silver letters at the top of the silver door knocker.
Ahmad fumbled with the keys, and when the door opened, he stood aside so
I could walk in first.
Even though the apartment was warm, I was still shivering as I sat on
the black ottoman by the entrance to remove my shoes. Ahmad walked past
me, and the motion sensor lights came on as he walked further into the
apartment, illuminating the high ceilings, hardwood floors and walls lined
with abstract artwork with colors that matched the deep brown and black
leather of the furniture I could see in the living room. Moments later, he
was out with a couple of towels. “First door on your right,” he said,
wrapping one around my shoulders. “You can go in there and change.”
I walked down the hallway, opened the door and closed it behind me.
The first door on my right led to a bedroom, and I made my way to the
bathroom and placed the towels on the white marble countertop that held
two sink basins with black faucets. There was a walk-in-steam shower
beside a freestanding bathtub, and I made sure the door was locked as I
removed my scarf while I stared at my reflection in the mirror, allowing my
bun to unravel. My long, wet hair fell down my shoulders and stuck to the
sides of my face. Then I removed my jacket and dropped it to the floor,
peeled off the jeggings I had on and removed my bodysuit in one quick
movement. I grabbed one of the plush Terry cloth towels and wrapped
myself, patting myself dry while rubbing my feet on the heated floors until I
stopped shivering.
When I was no longer shivering, I looked at the pile Ahmad had handed
to me. There was a white Calvin Klein shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a
white robe. I removed my wet bra and slipped into the white T-shirt and
sweatpants. Not quite warm enough, I wore the robe and tied the belt
around my waist. It came flowing down to my ankles. I wrapped the other
towel around my head in an easy turban and put all the wet clothes in the
sink. I put my ear to the door, and when I couldn’t hear a sound, I unlocked
the washroom door and walked out into the empty bedroom, looking around
for the first time. The king-sized platform bed had black upholstered
headboards that reached the ceilings and blended in with the dark
wallpaper, grey sheets, duvet, and dark paneled walls. Yet somehow, the
white pillows and the abstract art pieces caught the light that the hidden
light bulbs behind wall fixtures reflected, bathing the massive room in a
luxurious glow.
My feet sank deeper into the soft carpet as I walked towards the large
glass sliding doors that revealed a walk-in closet at one end, where I could
see his clothes hanging and another abstract art piece that covered the entire
wall in there. I was looking at the piece when I heard the knock. “Fa’iza?”
“Na’am? Yes?”
“Can I come in?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t come in; he opened the door just enough to poke his head in.
“Where are your wet clothes?” He asked, “I want to put them in the dryer.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be in the living room,” I heard him say as I walked towards the
bathroom to pick up the pile of wet clothes. I was halfway through the room
when I realized I hadn’t removed my wet bra from the pile. I folded it and
slipped it into the pocket of the robe I wore. When I got to the living room,
he was standing while watching a basketball match on the large flat-screen
television. He’d also changed into dry clothes – black slacks and a red
hoodie. I didn’t hear him come into his room, so he probably had clothes in
another part of the apartment – perhaps the laundry room. He turned around
as I walked in.
“You okay?” He asked as he took my wet clothes.
I nodded with a slight smile.
He walked down the hallway, and I looked out of the ceiling to floor
glass panes as I heard buttons beeping and the sound of the dryer came on. I
could see the city below us as it rained and if I hadn’t fallen in love with it
before that time, I did then. I walked around the living room and realized he
had a theme going on – dark luxury. The dark paneled walls continued here,
flanked by a black leather sectional and two brown leather accent chairs.
The low centre table was more of an art piece than a functional table; it was
an intricate shape carved out of a stone, which balanced an ivory sculpture
of a human bust. I walked towards the dining area with four minimalist
black chairs around an oval dining table with an elegant pendant chandelier
overhead. It was separated from the kitchen by a wall covered in another
large abstract piece. Its splash of color and smudges in green and burgundy
were the only bright colors in this entire space.
“Would you like some tea?”
I looked up and saw that he was in the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” I answered.
“There’s green tea, chamomile…” he started listing.
“Green’s fine.”
“Oh, there’s peppermint here too.” He said, raising the green box.
“Eww,” I said before I could stop myself.
“Exactly! It’s like drinking toothpaste,” he laughed as he walked
towards me with two steaming mugs of tea.
“So, why do you have it?”
“This one time I had a flu and I thought it would help. Couldn’t even
keep it down,” he chuckled as I scowled after taking a sip of the
unsweetened tea.
“I take mine plain,” he explained, “but there’s honey and sugar in the
kitchen if you want.”
I stood up and walked past the bar stools by the kitchen island into the
kitchen with stainless steel and black appliances. “Where’s the honey?”
“By the coffee maker,” he answered, already sitting down, his feet
stretched on the center table as he turned down the volume of the television.
Right by the Nespresso machine was a mason jar of organic honey. I
stirred a teaspoon full into my tea and walked back to the living room.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked when I sat down. “I can turn up the
heat, if you want.”
“No, this is perfect,” I replied.
We drank our tea quietly while he watched the game. A few minutes
later, the dryer beeped. He got my dry clothes and handed them back to me.
I went back into the room, locked myself in the toilet and changed back into
my clothes and put his shirt, robe and towels in the laundry basket, ignoring
the feel of the slightly damp bra against my skin. When the rain subsided,
we walked to the underground parkade, and towards his Audi.
“I know the last thing you’d want is to get on the bike again tonight,” he
smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He was breathtakingly
handsome; there was something about the way he carried himself and how
safe I suddenly felt around him. We got into the warm car, and as though
he’d forgotten he’d already asked, he wanted to know if I was warm
enough. I nodded yes, as Adorn by Miguel played softly through his
speakers. As the car started moving, he reached out and held my hand with
his right hand and his fingers lightly caressing mine. His eyes were fixated
on the road as we drove silently back to the residence.
* * *
I was dreaming of him when I heard the loud bang. I wasn’t sure if it was
from the dream or if someone across the hallway had closed their door with
a bang. Whatever it was, I was snapped out of my sleep. What was the
dream about? I couldn’t remember much except that he was in it – him and
his bike. I threw the covers off as I slid my feet into my fluffy bunny
slippers and headed towards the kitchenette in pink shorts and a white
Victoria’s Secret sweater. The door to Claire’s room was closed, but I could
hear the white noise from her sound machine.
I drank some water and went back to the room, but no matter how hard I
tried, I just could not get comfortable. I sighed as I reached for my phone on
the reading desk next to my bed, ignoring my Twitter and Instagram
notifications. I opened my messages: Sleep tight, Ahmad had sent at 11:15
pm, a few hours after he’d dropped me off. When I returned to the
residence, I took a hot shower, prayed my missed prayers, and fell straight
into bed. I didn’t even have tea.
I typed back: You too, Ahmad :-) then I deleted the smiley face. Maybe I
should just say thanks? I pressed the send button before I could delete more
words from my three-worded reply before getting up to make some tea. The
kettle hadn’t even whistled when my phone beeped. I couldn’t stop the
smile that formed on my face as I read his reply: You are awake…
Slept for a few hours, just woke up. I leaned back against the counter as
I replied. I hit send and watched the bubbles form as he started typing
immediately.
Bad dream?
I chuckled as I poured water into my cup. How did he know? I couldn’t
remember the dream in its entirety, but something about it woke me up. The
bang? Was that even from the dream? I replied immediately: You could say
that. Why are YOU awake? I hit send as I walked back to my room, mug in
hand.
His reply came as I was getting under the covers, propping up the
pillows against my back. I work better at night… Can I call you?
My heart started beating faster. It was 2:59 am and I was not sleepy at
all. I typed a simple Yes and hit send. Seconds later, my phone started
vibrating, and I cleared my throat before answering the call. “Yea, hello?” I
said into the receiver.
“Hey, you.” There was something about the low baritone of his voice I
found alluring. I could hear the sound of his keyboard in the background.
“I’m just trying to connect to my headphones.”
“That’s alright,” I said as I took a sip of my tea.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as an insomniac,” he said. The typing in the
background stopped.
“Definitely not an insomniac,” I said, getting defensive.
“Well, it is 3 am, and you’re awake,” he said.
I could listen to him talk in this accent all day. “Um, you’re awake too.
Mine was a bad dream. What’s your excuse?”
I heard him laugh, and I smiled as I imagined it. “Work.” The typing in
the background had resumed. “Half my team is in Japan, so it works out
with the time difference.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Nothing major. Just finishing the touches to an app I recently built.”
“You code?” I asked. I was impressed.
“Yes. Do you?” The cockiness in his voice was back. Or maybe I
imagined it? Hard to tell with the damn accent.
“No,” I took another sip. “What’s your app for?”
“Well, the complete version should help doctors record visitations easier
and have all the insurance directly billed instead of filling out the details
manually for each patient,” he explained. I heard the air sound of an email
being sent on the other end, and then “Anyway, how bad was your dream?”
I tried to recall the dream unsuccessfully. I only remember running
before the bang. I was running from something. What or who was I running
from? “Did I say it was bad?”
“If it’s keeping you up, it had to be a bad one, no?” he sounded a bit
concerned. I didn’t answer, and the silence stretched for a few seconds
before he broke it: “It was nice hanging out earlier – before, you know, the
rain.”
“Yeah, it was. I had a nice time, thank you,” I responded. I felt like he
knew what I was talking about – for the tea, dry clothes and things I could
not quite put into words.
“I’m leaving for New York in the afternoon for an investor briefing on
Monday.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, hoping the disappointment in my voice wasn’t too
obvious.
“I’ll see you when I get back?”
I didn’t want to have to wait a while before seeing him again, but I also
didn’t want to seem too eager. I listened to his breathing at the end of the
line, and I couldn’t resist teasing him.
“If I can remember your name.”
“Wooooow. Really? You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” I
could hear a smile in his voice. I loved the fact that I could tell he was
smiling, even though I couldn’t see him.
“Never,” I promised.
C
jewel-encrusted mirror propped up in the corner of my dorm room and
shook my head. No, white is too basic. I held up the red top I got on an
impromptu shopping spree with Afreen a few weeks before. Great color, but
it showed too much cleavage. I sighed. My bed was scattered with outfit
options I hadn’t yet tried on. I just couldn’t decide what to wear for our
date. Not a date. Just a movie. Movie date. Nope, not a date. Just watching a
movie together. Why couldn’t I get it together? Just looking at the mess I’d
made was giving me a headache. How long would it take to fold all of that
and have them back neatly in the closet?
I picked up my phone and tapped on the screen to check the weather
forecast. It was 19 degrees Celsius – not bad, warmer than I expected. Just
then, the soulful call to Asr prayer filled my room from the Muslim Pro app
on my phone. I walked into the washroom to perform my ablution as I
heard the Arabic words, but my head automatically translated the words
into English: Come to Prayer. Come to Salvation.
After my four raka’ats, the series of movements during prayer, I seemed
to have gotten more clarity on my outfit choice. I walked to the closet and
brought out a pair of grey jeggings I’d never worn before. I paired it with a
black bodysuit off my bed, and added small golden hoop earrings. My hair
was tied into a bun at the nape of my neck and was wrapped in a blue jersey
scarf. I was tying the laces of my high-top Converse when my phone started
ringing, and because I hadn’t saved his number – even after he’d called to
“check up on me” last night and earlier today to ask if I was “still good for
later?” – I hesitated a bit before picking up.
“Yeah, hello?” I said into the phone.
“Hey,” his voice in my ear gave me butterflies in my tummy. Stop it,
Fa’iza. That’s the devil tickling you. I thought about what my Quran
recitation tutor used to say when we were growing up to my older cousins
who said Brad Pitt in Mr. and Mrs. Smith gave them ‘butterflies in their
tummy.’ “I’m in the lobby,” he said. Was I losing it completely, or could I
actually hear the smile in his voice?
“Oh, okay. Coming down,” I replied, wondering why my heart was
beating faster than normal.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. This bodysuit accentuated my
tiny waist. Not bad, miss, I thought to myself. I looked more confident than
I felt, and in typical Fa’iza fashion, I grabbed an oversized denim jacket to
feel more comfortable. Still, I couldn’t stop looking into the elevator mirror,
wondering if I looked good. When the elevator door opened on the ground
floor, my eyes scanned the lobby, past the front desk and the brightly
colored armchairs in front of the fireplace, and I saw Ahmad standing by
the bar stools just behind the pool table, with an expression I could not quite
read coloring his face. It disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, and he
started smiling more broadly as we closed the distance between us.
“You look good,” he said. He was wearing a taupe leather jacket with a
black shirt underneath.
“Thanks.”
There was a twinkle in his eye. “You ready? I am parked right outside,”
he asked, and I nodded. “After you,” he opened the door for me and waited
as I walked past him. Oh, how chivalrous, Ahmad Babangida. Who would
have thought?
Outside, he walked ahead of me, and I noticed black leather gloves
sticking out of his back pocket. I didn’t think much of it until he stopped,
climbed a huge black power bike and passed me a black and silver helmet.
My mouth slowly hung open as my eyes darted from the helmet to his face.
“Are – are you mad?” I stuttered. I couldn’t get over how magnificent and
dangerous the bike looked, and with him sitting on it, it was a scene straight
out of a James Bond movie.
“What?” He asked, failing to hide his amusement.
“I’m not getting on this –” I clenched my fingers into a fist as I searched
for the right word to show my disdain, “– on this thing.”
“Well, it’s the fastest way to get there. You know how the traffic gets
during the weekend.”
I didn’t know and honestly, it didn’t matter. I would rather arrive late
than in pieces. I shook my head no. “I don’t care,” looking at the silver
headlight cover as it gleamed in the sunlight. “This is too dangerous.”
“You can trust me,” he looked from my eyes to my lips and back into
my eyes again. “I’ll be very careful. I promise.”
I looked away as I sighed out loudly, and finally took the helmet he was
holding out to me. I strapped on the helmet and fastened it tightly. He
watched me; then he put on his matte black helmet as I got on the bike,
delicately balancing my feet on the silver foot pegs.
“Are you okay?” He asked as he wore his leather gloves. His voice was
slightly muffled under the helmet.
“Yeah,” I said. I was nervous, but I couldn’t deny that I was beginning
to get excited.
“Hold on tight,” he cautioned. I felt the blood drain from my face, and it
suddenly dawned on me that the passenger had to hold onto the rider. I held
onto his shoulders as he leaned forward, and the bike came on. Within
seconds, we zoomed off through the streets. I leaned in as we swerved,
making low right turns and moving fast in traffic. I watched the buses and
cars we passed, and it felt like I was seeing the city through a different lens
like I was a first-time visitor. The buildings were beautiful, and the art
sculptures and food trucks made it feel like a moving portrait, and we made
the most beautiful painting.
* * *
We shared a large bag of popcorn while we watched the movie, and after, as
we dumped the 3D glasses in the recycle bin, we decided to get dinner. He
told me about an excellent restaurant a few blocks away. As we approached
his Kawasaki bike, I grumbled jokingly about being on the bike.
“Well, you’re dressed for it,” he teased as he handed me my helmet.
“And I know you enjoyed the ride.” He was right. Once I got over the initial
feeling of being scared, I did enjoy the ride.
When the bike slowed down and gradually came to a halt in front of a
red brick building, the outdoor patio was unoccupied and above the
entrance to the restaurant was a placard that had the name Casa Madera in
cursive black letters. My ears were buzzing from the wind, and I felt
slightly lightheaded as I took my hands off his back and gingerly got off the
black bike. He removed his helmet, set it on his bike and alighted in one
easy movement.
“Here. Let me help you with that,” he said as I struggled to unclip the
helmet’s harness from around my neck. His fingers went over mine, and
with a soft click, he unfastened my helmet. I removed it and handed it to
him, watching as he clipped it in place next to his.
“How long have you had a bike?” I asked as we walked towards the
restaurant.
“I got my first bike when I was seventeen,” his hands went into the
pockets of his faded denim trousers, his grey timberland boots crunching
the gravel entrance as we entered the restaurant. “So, you’ve never actually
been on a bike?”
I shook my head.
“Really? Even in Abuja?” he seemed surprised. Powerbike races and car
drifting were big things in Abuja. My friends from school often invited me,
but I knew my mother too well to even ask for permission to go with them.
She didn’t think any responsible girl from a good home should be found in
such rowdy places. My brothers, of course, didn’t even need to ask
permission; they went to the driving range, smoked shisha, and screamed
along with everyone else and their upbringing was never questioned.
“Good to see you again, Ahmad,” a tall, tanned man with a Mexican
accent welcomed us into the restaurant. As he spoke, I was distracted by the
waterfall simulation behind him.
“Hello, Javier,” Ahmad said. I could sense a familiarity between them
and wondered if they’d known each other for long.
“I don’t know why you bother making a reservation, when you can just
walk in and have your favorite table,” Javier said with a smile, looking at
the white monitor in front of him.
“It’s a restaurant, not McDonald’s,” Ahmad laughed.
Javier laughed with him as he led the way into the brown-walled
restaurant with life-size paintings of surrealistic figures on the wall. We
removed our jackets as we got settled into the plush velvet seats. As I
looked around the sparse restaurant, Javier was telling Ahmad: “Your
waitress will be with you shortly.”
We were quiet for a few seconds, and then, “so, full disclosure,” Ahmad
started as he leaned forward, his hands on the table. “That was my second
time watching that movie.”
My eyes widened as I fiddled with the neckline of my top as I looked at
him. “What do you mean?”
“I saw it as soon as it was released,” he explained, his eyes moving
from my hands on my neck and back to my face. “I just wanted to spend
time with you.”
“Hello, guys. My name is Paige, and I’ll be your waitress today.” We
were interrupted by a red-haired girl about my age, wearing a black dress
and heels, who handed us the menus, filled our glasses with water and
notified us of the Chef’s special.
I pretended to be reading the menu, but my mind was going over what
Ahmad had said: I just wanted to spend time with you. It was such a simple
sentence, but there was something about the way his voice dropped when he
said it and the intensity in his eyes when they met mine. And that
godforsaken accent made it sound like so much more than a platonic get-
together. I had almost forgotten about the waitress’s presence when I heard
her voice again: “would you like a few minutes with the menu before
placing your orders?”
Ahmad looked at me from behind his menu.
“Yes, please,” I said, looking up at her.
“Of course,” she smiled. “Any drinks to get you started?”
“Water’s fine,” I said.
“I’m good with water, too. Thanks, Paige,” Ahmad closed the menu and
placed it on the table.
I kept my eyes on the menu, trying to figure out what to eat, pretending
not to feel his stare. It was always hard trying to filter out the halal food
options. Everything that looked good had bacon bits or ham in it, or it was
sauteed in lard.
I looked up at him, “Why is your menu closed?”
“I know what I want,” he said, looking at me. It was quiet in the
restaurant except for the faint clink of cutlery and soothing jazz over the
hidden speakers. I know what I want rang in my ear. It could mean two
different things. He explained, “I always get the same thing when I come
here.”
Okay, so I imagined it. He was talking about the food. Just the food.
Paige came back with a notepad and a pen in her hand, ready to take our
orders.
“Is your meat halal?” The steaks looked good, but I needed to know if it
was permissible for me to eat according to Islamic standards.
“Um – I don’t believe it is. But I can confirm with the chef, if you’d
like,” she said and started heading towards the kitchen.
“No, don’t worry about it,” I stopped her, opening the menu again, “I’ll
have the Butternut Squash ravioli, then.” Muslims always have backup
orders when eating out.
“That’s a good vegetarian option,” she quipped as she scribbled it down,
then turning to look at Ahmad: “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have medium-rare Steak and Prawns,” he said, handing her the
menu.
“You want mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus to come with it?”
“Always,” he looked down as his phone lit up, but he ignored it.
“You don’t care that the meat isn’t halal?” I asked once she was out of
sight
He shook his head. “It’s beef. I say bismillah like we’re supposed to
before eating. Doesn’t that make it halal?”
I thought about it. Yes, we start every activity with the name of God,
even eating. “I guess. But we’re supposed to look for halal whenever we
can.”
“So you only eat where it explicitly says halal?”
“Yup,” I had never even considered the alternative. “When I’m not sure
if the meat is halal, I go for vegetarian or seafood options.” It was one of
the things I noticed Umma did when we traveled together.
“Interesting,” he said, taking a cup of water to his lips. “What are you
studying?” He leaned back, but his eyes followed every movement I made.
“Um – Law,” I said, suddenly aware of my hands clasping and
unclasping on my thighs.
“Why Law?” his voice dropped again.
Why Law? I asked myself. No one had ever asked me that. Ever since I
was in secondary school, my family always joked about how I would take
after my father. I think I just subconsciously imbibed that, and I went with it
without too much thought. “I guess I’ve always been interested in
protecting rights,” I replied. I knew immediately that sounded lame but he
nodded slowly, like he was trying to understand.
Our food arrived. It looked delicious and tasted even better. “You
studied law too, right?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Afreen.
“I dropped out in my first year,” he cut into his steak, “switched to
Interaction Design at Cambridge. I just finished my Masters.”
I wondered what my parents would think if I decided to switch majors.
Not that I wanted to, because it had grown on me, but I wondered
nevertheless. By the time we made it out of the restaurant, it was already
dark outside.
“Uh oh, I have bad news for you,” he said as he zipped up his jacket.
“What is it?” I looked around the empty parking lot.
“It looks like it’s going to rain,” looking up at the full moon
illuminating the skyline.
And he was right. We were on the bike for barely thirty seconds when it
started drizzling. Little at first, but then it got heavier. We were soon
completely drenched. The raindrops had formed multiple stings of water
falling off my helmet, and I could barely see. At the traffic lights, he raised
the glass visor of his helmet to talk to me, even though I could barely make
out the words he was saying with the wind howling. “It’s dangerous to keep
riding,” he wiped the visor with gloved hands, “the roads are too wet.”
I nodded, my grip getting tighter on his shoulder.
“We’re a minute from my place,” he continued. With the wind blowing
so hard, it was getting harder and harder to hear him. “Let’s go there until
the rain subsides.”
“Okay,” I said, shouting so he could hear me. I hadn’t realized that they
lived so close to this part of town. I knew Aunty Mami was in Nigeria, but
it will be nice to surprise Afreen.
We rode carefully until we made a left at the tallest skyscraper I’d seen
in this part of town. As we approached the doors to its underground
parking, they rolled upwards. We rode through the brightly lit multi-storey
parkade and stopped at an empty stall. He powered down the bike and we
got off.
“Where’s this place?” I asked, looking around. My voice was low, but
the slight tremor was noticeable.
“I live here,” he said as he removed his helmet. He stopped when he
saw the confused expression on my face.
“What? You said we were going home.”
“No, I said my place.”
“I thought home –” my words failed me. I had assumed that we were
going to his parent’s house.
“Fa’iza, I don’t live with my parents.”
“But your room – the room –” I was stuttering, remembering when I
walked into his room when he was asleep.
“Oh, the weekend you saw me there?” He ran his hands through his
damp hair, “I had just come back from the UK the night before, so I went to
spend the weekend with them.”
“Oh.” Most people don’t move out of their parent’s house in northern
Nigeria until they got married, so it was a surprise for me.
“You’re shivering. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes before you
catch a cold.” He said with concern in his eyes. “Fa’iza?” he called out to
me softly when I didn’t answer; his voice was almost a whisper.
“I – um, I –” I swallowed. “I just want to go back to the r–residence,”
my voice cracked as I was shivering so much from the cold.
“Okay, I’ll drop you back at the residence,” he said reassuringly,
maintaining the distance I had put between us. “But if you stay in these wet
clothes any longer, you will catch a cold.”
“I dunno – I –” my voice trailed off. There was a pause – a heavy one. I
heard my teeth chattering.
“Fa’iza?” he asked again, his voice low. “Look at me.”
I peeled my gaze from the exhaust pipes on his bike and looked up at
him. There he was in his drenched shirt under his jacket, his face wet from
when he had his visor open. “You’re safe with me, Fa’iza. Wallahi. I
swear.” It was so quiet down here and my heart was thumping wildly in my
chest. He sighed and ran his left hand through his hair again. “Trust me.”
I reluctantly met his eyes. He’s Aunty Mami’s son. Of course, I was safe
with him. It was just that there were many stories I’d heard growing up that
led to questions like why was she alone with him? No one ever asks why did
he do that to her? That was the sad reality in conservative societies like
ours – the girl was always expected to know better, to be the responsible
one, and to not put herself in compromising situations.
I nodded, and we walked together into the elevator. Ahmad called it to
his floor and a green light blinked beside it as the gentle whir of the elevator
going upwards filled the silence. As the elevator stopped, an automated
female voice announced: “Penthouse.” The doors opened, and we walked
out. The floor was dimly lit, and the army green carpet we walked on
stopped the sounds of our footsteps from echoing until we reached a brown
door with PH 2 written in silver letters at the top of the silver door knocker.
Ahmad fumbled with the keys, and when the door opened, he stood aside so
I could walk in first.
Even though the apartment was warm, I was still shivering as I sat on
the black ottoman by the entrance to remove my shoes. Ahmad walked past
me, and the motion sensor lights came on as he walked further into the
apartment, illuminating the high ceilings, hardwood floors and walls lined
with abstract artwork with colors that matched the deep brown and black
leather of the furniture I could see in the living room. Moments later, he
was out with a couple of towels. “First door on your right,” he said,
wrapping one around my shoulders. “You can go in there and change.”
I walked down the hallway, opened the door and closed it behind me.
The first door on my right led to a bedroom, and I made my way to the
bathroom and placed the towels on the white marble countertop that held
two sink basins with black faucets. There was a walk-in-steam shower
beside a freestanding bathtub, and I made sure the door was locked as I
removed my scarf while I stared at my reflection in the mirror, allowing my
bun to unravel. My long, wet hair fell down my shoulders and stuck to the
sides of my face. Then I removed my jacket and dropped it to the floor,
peeled off the jeggings I had on and removed my bodysuit in one quick
movement. I grabbed one of the plush Terry cloth towels and wrapped
myself, patting myself dry while rubbing my feet on the heated floors until I
stopped shivering.
When I was no longer shivering, I looked at the pile Ahmad had handed
to me. There was a white Calvin Klein shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a
white robe. I removed my wet bra and slipped into the white T-shirt and
sweatpants. Not quite warm enough, I wore the robe and tied the belt
around my waist. It came flowing down to my ankles. I wrapped the other
towel around my head in an easy turban and put all the wet clothes in the
sink. I put my ear to the door, and when I couldn’t hear a sound, I unlocked
the washroom door and walked out into the empty bedroom, looking around
for the first time. The king-sized platform bed had black upholstered
headboards that reached the ceilings and blended in with the dark
wallpaper, grey sheets, duvet, and dark paneled walls. Yet somehow, the
white pillows and the abstract art pieces caught the light that the hidden
light bulbs behind wall fixtures reflected, bathing the massive room in a
luxurious glow.
My feet sank deeper into the soft carpet as I walked towards the large
glass sliding doors that revealed a walk-in closet at one end, where I could
see his clothes hanging and another abstract art piece that covered the entire
wall in there. I was looking at the piece when I heard the knock. “Fa’iza?”
“Na’am? Yes?”
“Can I come in?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t come in; he opened the door just enough to poke his head in.
“Where are your wet clothes?” He asked, “I want to put them in the dryer.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be in the living room,” I heard him say as I walked towards the
bathroom to pick up the pile of wet clothes. I was halfway through the room
when I realized I hadn’t removed my wet bra from the pile. I folded it and
slipped it into the pocket of the robe I wore. When I got to the living room,
he was standing while watching a basketball match on the large flat-screen
television. He’d also changed into dry clothes – black slacks and a red
hoodie. I didn’t hear him come into his room, so he probably had clothes in
another part of the apartment – perhaps the laundry room. He turned around
as I walked in.
“You okay?” He asked as he took my wet clothes.
I nodded with a slight smile.
He walked down the hallway, and I looked out of the ceiling to floor
glass panes as I heard buttons beeping and the sound of the dryer came on. I
could see the city below us as it rained and if I hadn’t fallen in love with it
before that time, I did then. I walked around the living room and realized he
had a theme going on – dark luxury. The dark paneled walls continued here,
flanked by a black leather sectional and two brown leather accent chairs.
The low centre table was more of an art piece than a functional table; it was
an intricate shape carved out of a stone, which balanced an ivory sculpture
of a human bust. I walked towards the dining area with four minimalist
black chairs around an oval dining table with an elegant pendant chandelier
overhead. It was separated from the kitchen by a wall covered in another
large abstract piece. Its splash of color and smudges in green and burgundy
were the only bright colors in this entire space.
“Would you like some tea?”
I looked up and saw that he was in the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” I answered.
“There’s green tea, chamomile…” he started listing.
“Green’s fine.”
“Oh, there’s peppermint here too.” He said, raising the green box.
“Eww,” I said before I could stop myself.
“Exactly! It’s like drinking toothpaste,” he laughed as he walked
towards me with two steaming mugs of tea.
“So, why do you have it?”
“This one time I had a flu and I thought it would help. Couldn’t even
keep it down,” he chuckled as I scowled after taking a sip of the
unsweetened tea.
“I take mine plain,” he explained, “but there’s honey and sugar in the
kitchen if you want.”
I stood up and walked past the bar stools by the kitchen island into the
kitchen with stainless steel and black appliances. “Where’s the honey?”
“By the coffee maker,” he answered, already sitting down, his feet
stretched on the center table as he turned down the volume of the television.
Right by the Nespresso machine was a mason jar of organic honey. I
stirred a teaspoon full into my tea and walked back to the living room.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked when I sat down. “I can turn up the
heat, if you want.”
“No, this is perfect,” I replied.
We drank our tea quietly while he watched the game. A few minutes
later, the dryer beeped. He got my dry clothes and handed them back to me.
I went back into the room, locked myself in the toilet and changed back into
my clothes and put his shirt, robe and towels in the laundry basket, ignoring
the feel of the slightly damp bra against my skin. When the rain subsided,
we walked to the underground parkade, and towards his Audi.
“I know the last thing you’d want is to get on the bike again tonight,” he
smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He was breathtakingly
handsome; there was something about the way he carried himself and how
safe I suddenly felt around him. We got into the warm car, and as though
he’d forgotten he’d already asked, he wanted to know if I was warm
enough. I nodded yes, as Adorn by Miguel played softly through his
speakers. As the car started moving, he reached out and held my hand with
his right hand and his fingers lightly caressing mine. His eyes were fixated
on the road as we drove silently back to the residence.
* * *
I was dreaming of him when I heard the loud bang. I wasn’t sure if it was
from the dream or if someone across the hallway had closed their door with
a bang. Whatever it was, I was snapped out of my sleep. What was the
dream about? I couldn’t remember much except that he was in it – him and
his bike. I threw the covers off as I slid my feet into my fluffy bunny
slippers and headed towards the kitchenette in pink shorts and a white
Victoria’s Secret sweater. The door to Claire’s room was closed, but I could
hear the white noise from her sound machine.
I drank some water and went back to the room, but no matter how hard I
tried, I just could not get comfortable. I sighed as I reached for my phone on
the reading desk next to my bed, ignoring my Twitter and Instagram
notifications. I opened my messages: Sleep tight, Ahmad had sent at 11:15
pm, a few hours after he’d dropped me off. When I returned to the
residence, I took a hot shower, prayed my missed prayers, and fell straight
into bed. I didn’t even have tea.
I typed back: You too, Ahmad :-) then I deleted the smiley face. Maybe I
should just say thanks? I pressed the send button before I could delete more
words from my three-worded reply before getting up to make some tea. The
kettle hadn’t even whistled when my phone beeped. I couldn’t stop the
smile that formed on my face as I read his reply: You are awake…
Slept for a few hours, just woke up. I leaned back against the counter as
I replied. I hit send and watched the bubbles form as he started typing
immediately.
Bad dream?
I chuckled as I poured water into my cup. How did he know? I couldn’t
remember the dream in its entirety, but something about it woke me up. The
bang? Was that even from the dream? I replied immediately: You could say
that. Why are YOU awake? I hit send as I walked back to my room, mug in
hand.
His reply came as I was getting under the covers, propping up the
pillows against my back. I work better at night… Can I call you?
My heart started beating faster. It was 2:59 am and I was not sleepy at
all. I typed a simple Yes and hit send. Seconds later, my phone started
vibrating, and I cleared my throat before answering the call. “Yea, hello?” I
said into the receiver.
“Hey, you.” There was something about the low baritone of his voice I
found alluring. I could hear the sound of his keyboard in the background.
“I’m just trying to connect to my headphones.”
“That’s alright,” I said as I took a sip of my tea.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as an insomniac,” he said. The typing in the
background stopped.
“Definitely not an insomniac,” I said, getting defensive.
“Well, it is 3 am, and you’re awake,” he said.
I could listen to him talk in this accent all day. “Um, you’re awake too.
Mine was a bad dream. What’s your excuse?”
I heard him laugh, and I smiled as I imagined it. “Work.” The typing in
the background had resumed. “Half my team is in Japan, so it works out
with the time difference.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Nothing major. Just finishing the touches to an app I recently built.”
“You code?” I asked. I was impressed.
“Yes. Do you?” The cockiness in his voice was back. Or maybe I
imagined it? Hard to tell with the damn accent.
“No,” I took another sip. “What’s your app for?”
“Well, the complete version should help doctors record visitations easier
and have all the insurance directly billed instead of filling out the details
manually for each patient,” he explained. I heard the air sound of an email
being sent on the other end, and then “Anyway, how bad was your dream?”
I tried to recall the dream unsuccessfully. I only remember running
before the bang. I was running from something. What or who was I running
from? “Did I say it was bad?”
“If it’s keeping you up, it had to be a bad one, no?” he sounded a bit
concerned. I didn’t answer, and the silence stretched for a few seconds
before he broke it: “It was nice hanging out earlier – before, you know, the
rain.”
“Yeah, it was. I had a nice time, thank you,” I responded. I felt like he
knew what I was talking about – for the tea, dry clothes and things I could
not quite put into words.
“I’m leaving for New York in the afternoon for an investor briefing on
Monday.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, hoping the disappointment in my voice wasn’t too
obvious.
“I’ll see you when I get back?”
I didn’t want to have to wait a while before seeing him again, but I also
didn’t want to seem too eager. I listened to his breathing at the end of the
line, and I couldn’t resist teasing him.
“If I can remember your name.”
“Wooooow. Really? You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” I
could hear a smile in his voice. I loved the fact that I could tell he was
smiling, even though I couldn’t see him.
“Never,” I promised.
C