The Essence of Noah (Muslim story)

Non-fiction

"Did you enjoy it?" Noah and I walk lazily in tow. Our feet drag lazily against the concrete footpath, with the occasional skidding sound of soles against the ground when our legs don't hover high enough.

"Yeah." We just left Abu Tamer's Kebab hut, leaving an overjoyed Saleem to attend to his dinner time rush, as we escaped the crowding café into the stuffy side street. I don't know how long we stayed at the hut, but now it's getting late. The bright haze of orange sunlight barely shines over the large Melbourne buildings, leaving Noah and I submerged in pools of shade as we go.

In the hut, the air-con was a dream. My clothes didn't feel like a second layer of sweaty skin for a change and beneath my scarf, my neck wasn't radiating burning heat. Outside though, summer continued to swelter well into the evening, dragging along with us as we walk. The remainder of my coke in my hand, is no longer refreshingly cool. The once icy packaging is now clammy in my hands and the labelling glue is coming apart.

"God," Noah leans his head forward as he brushes his hair from his forehead and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. "It's hot."

"Really?" My voice is slightly hoarse, tingling with the aftertaste of the soft drink. I adjust my bag on my back and tug at the collar of my shirt. Noah glances at me from the side, with a lopsided grin on his face.

We walk a little more, though with a full belly and summer drowsiness, the walk seems too long. My knees seem to be bending more than normal with each step I take, and I find myself fearing that they may buckle at any moment. Noah though, doesn't seem to be bothered too much except by the hair that stubbornly falls over his eyes. He kicks at a twig on the ground and I watch as it spins ahead before stopping a few steps in front.

"You like reading?" I don't look up as I ask, but can see Noah glance at me from my peripheral sight.

"Yeah." He shrugs, his bag moving up and down on his shoulders with the movement. "You?"

"Yeah." He looks at me again and this time I turn my head to face him.

"What do you like?"

"Fiction." He tilts his head to move his hair away.

"I didn't take you for the fiction type." I try to not frown at this and keep my gaze ahead.

"You didn't take me as the Muslim type either." My intention was to not bring the subject back up at all, and definitely not to sound bitter about it, but the words roll like a sea full of harsh waves. The smile on Noah's face fades slowly, and guilt starts to surge through me.

"Look, I didn't mean it like that." His pace has slowed down, and I mimic it for him to continue. "I said I was sorry." His dejected voice is subtle and calm, but it feels like a blast in my ears that makes me wince at my own stupidity.

"I know, I didn't mean to bring it up." My words are spoken much faster than his and don't sound as calm. "What genres do you like?" My hopeless attempt at restarting the conversation I sent packing makes me cringe internally and Noah sighs. Though it's my fault that he probably doesn't want to talk anymore, I can't help the disappointment that lurks.

"Non fiction." He speaks after a pause and we continue to walk, though now it feels like we're in a crowd of awkwardness that's so loud, but barely audible.

"Really?"

"Didn't take me as the non fiction type?" He steals a glance in my direction, his smile threatening at the corner of his tugging lips. I turn to him too and grin back.

"So what? You read biographies? Autobiographies?"

"I guess."

"Anyone that I might know?" Finally, we reach our apartment building, walking slowly up the steps.