Emeralds

Forty-two.

I receive a Whatsapp message and open it to find it's an audio message from Leen. I wait till Ahmed is gone and listen to it.
"I had a dream yesterday that both of us were walking with dema and buying her toys and stuff. Isn't it strange that it was you and me not even Jenin and me? We were very happy by the way. We were laughing all along, and I woke up disappointed that it was only a dream..."

My lips quiver by the end of the message. I hold the phone tight, feeling my chest tighten, my throat ache, my eyes sting. I draw both my hands to my face and I sob into them. I have never been so suffocated since my father died. It is painful that feeling of helplessness; it's like your body is exploding with aches and anger, and you're sitting there calmly, all you can do is cry some very bitter tears. Merciless ones.

That night, sleep never visits Leen and me. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling while Leen stays on the balcony, savouring the chilly night air.
"Leen," I call, but get no answer. I call again and she doesn't reply as well. I get up and walk to the balcony to find her on one of the chairs, with earphones in her ears. I take them off and smile at her although she cannot see it.
"What are you listening to?" I ask.
"Surat Taha," she says, straightening in her chair.
"I cannot sleep," I admit.
"Neither can I."
"What should we do then?"
"Mmmm," she thinks for a while. "Read something for me?"
"Sure, what should we read?"
"What books did you bring?" she asks.
"What you asked me to bring, And The Mountains Echoed and I've Got Your Number."
"I've Got Your Number is too girly, being the thoughtful wife I am, I won't let you read that for me."
"Being the what? Honey if you cared about me you wouldn't have brought it along from the beginning. You brought it knowing that I'll read it for you."
"Ah, you got me," she smiles sheepishly.
"I think I'll have to read it for you," I say in the dazzlement of her smile, and she just laughs victoriously for getting her way.

"If I could go back in time," I read from the book, "that's the moment I would march up to myself and say severly, 'Poppy, priorities.' But you don't realize, do you? The moment happens, and you make your crucial mistake, and then it's gone and the chance to do anything about it is blown away."
"I feel like that now," Leen interrupts me. "I've made a crucial mistake and I'm paying for it now and there's nothing I can do."
"Who said you've made a mistake," I say gently, "accidents are not mistakes, fate is not a mistake, it's ought to happen, no matter how cautious you are."
"That's it," she nods, "cautious," she says it slowly and illustratively using her hands. "I'm not cautious; I wasn't cautious when that happened."
"You know I'm always mad at you when you're clumsy--which most of the times you are--but at that time, when I saw you lying on the hospital bed, when later on you opened your eyes and did not see, I wasn't mad at you. Maybe it really wasn't a mistake, that was going to happen anyway. I'm mad it happened to you. I just don't know what I'm mad at. I'm mad at the other driver, who haven't even shown up afterwards, I'm mad at the Egyptian traffic, I'm mad at where we live. Everything about those things is a mistake, and that maybe neutralises your own incautiousness." I pause for a few seconds looking for words that would describe me better, or maybe waiting for a reaction from her, indicating whether she understands what I'm trying to say. However, all I see is a blank look on her angelic face. "I don't make sense do I?"
"What you said wasn't totally clear," she nods. "But if puts me at ease somehow."
"We're going overboard anyway," I say, "the girl only lost her ring in the book and we're here having a complex debate about some deep subject." She chuckles.
I smile and continue reading for her.

I read about fifty pages when both of us start feeling sleepy, and my throat feels dry by that time as well. I put the book down on the bedside table with a soft and light thud and rest my head on the feathery pillow, which almost immediately swallows it.
"Adam?" she calls.
"Yes?"
"Why do you think we don't have children till now? We've been married for quite a while."
"I'm okay with it," I shrug.
"Y-you don't want children?"
"Of course I do want children. But as long as we are fine, I'm okay with whenever they come. Maybe it's delayed because Allah knows we wouldn't have been able to look after them right now, being too busy with you."
"Yeah," she nods against her pillow. "That makes sense. . . But does that make you love me less?"
I turn my head to look at her and wish she could see me rolling my eyes, "Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not," she says defensively. "It's been a while since you said it last time, so I was wondering."
"Do I have to say it everyday?" I smirk.
"Yes you do! I say it all the time!"
"Because you are childish. Besides, haven't you always said actions are more important than words?"
"Well, words are not bad either!"
"Okay. . ." I say lightly.
"Just 'okay'?" she says impatiently.
"What's wrong with 'okay'?" I ask, trying as hard as I can not to sound like I'm smiling--which I actually am.
"Say: 'Leen, I love you.'" she says like a teacher; I guess she can never really quit her job.
"Leen, goodnight habibti," I say turning to the other side and pulling the duvet.
"You--" she says unbelievingly, "seriously!?" I smile and close my eyes.