Things Nadir N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ Said | [MUSLIM]

XI

XI

Nadir

When I woke up to a cold breakfast and the sight of Zaeb quietly going about her daily housework, my heart was heavier than it was last night.

And with every passing moment, it was getting even heavier than before.

Taking my time getting ready for work, I watched her as she made our bed, put yesterday's clothes and bed linen into the washer, and then kicked close the stupid wardrobe door that I somehow always forgot to shut after use. She was wearing one of the bracelets Arij and Mishal had made. It was from a children's toy set, with a little bit of love tucked between violet and yellow beads. On her face, she was wearing the expression of routine.

It was not a new scene to me at all, to see her do her daily work while the morning sunlight shone through her hair. But, it was different today. The quietude was too prominent today... it was almost unbearable. I was not very far from starting to cry.

Before leaving for work, when I kissed my children as they said their salaams, I turned to face her and quickly, before I could overthink and change my mind about it, hugged her.

You're a complete artwork, Zaeb, I felt like telling her. You look like a dream, and taste like a fruit from Paradise.

You are an undeserved gift to me from Allah.

And in my arms, at this moment, you feel warm, and soft. As unsteady and unreliable as a cat. 

I am holding here, right now, the greatest treasure I have; that I don't know how to protect.

If only I could actually make myself tell her any of these things I was feeling.

Most people think love is about how much you love them. About how hard, how thoroughly you love, and to what extends you can go for it. But after six years of being married, and what felt like a much longer time of having loved this woman with just everything that I had in me, I had stumbled upon a newer, greater understanding of it all.

Loving, in and of itself, is not the big deal. Loving comes naturally; in fact, it's that one thing that man knows exactly how to do.

The big deal is how you love. How you safeguard them. How you express it to them and to the world. How you make them feel. How you react to the way they make you feel.

So many hows.

At this point in my life, I was certain that the loving was not what lacked in my love for Zaeb. But the how did. I was not sure about my actions, but my tongue definitely did not synchronise with my heart. 

My love was, in the end, deficient...no matter how much I wished it weren't.

My current job was of an editor in a publishing house which paid just enough, if not a little more than what was fitting. I felt so because editors at publishing companies normally have a lot of conversation to do, and highly assertive, formal ones at that. Which, I shouldn't have to mention, wasn't really my forte.

When I had first applied, I was certain they would reject me. But I tried anyway, because if not editor, I could be assistant editor. The place was close to my then rental flat, and these were of the few jobs Mastering in English could give you. I liked literature, and prose more than other kinds at that.

Maybe one develops a love for stories when their own story doesn't seem to be the best one out there.

I mean, I hadn't known Zaeb back then.

During the interview, when I began to speak like a clown, the guy who was interviewing me lost his patience. But a few harsh words from him, I could handle, and so I did.

But then he said something which I didn't expect he would say.

"What made you think you can land a job in publishing, anyway? Why didn't you apply for something more suitable for someone with the problem that you've got?"

I glanced towards him, struggling to keep a straight face, focusing on my words.

"Like what, sir?"

"Y'know, something that didn't involve talking normally?"

"R-right, like you mean, domestic service, or p-p-perhaps, washing dishes in some restaurant?"

I stood up. "Thank you, sir, for your time. And...and thank you for bringing to my at-attention for the first time, that I don't talk normally."

By the time I walked up and reached the door to leave, nearly in tears, he was by my side.

With a palm on his breast pocket and a grim expression that looked legitimate, he apologised in a grave tone, and offered me the job.

It was convenient that the senior manager of the firm understood and sympathised with my abnormal conversation habits. So, because I had a Master's degree, and proved to do my paperwork well, I was paired with a confident, promising young woman named Sarah. It turned out to be a good idea, because we worked fast; she could deal with several clients in a day, as more than half of her clientele's actual brainwork was sent to my desk.

Sarah was great not just with work and clients, but also in her phlegmatic attitude towards me. I liked her indifference, honestly, and not my boss's pity.

It was great, because on days like today, my mood didn't have to affect my work — there was no one who tried to talk to me unnecessarily.

But as soon as the working hours were over, my wife, who was anyway not quite gone, floated back and sat on top of all of my thoughts, like a little fairy. Again I started getting anxious about her weird behaviour earlier.

Suddenly, the same picture of Zaeb silently doing her chores this morning kept flashed before my eyes again. I smiled remembering Mishi's toy bracelet twinkling on her wrist, until I had a little plan to cheer her up.