What Not To Do When You're In Love

04 | Started

"You met our beloved monkey Hashim, too, didn't you? He told us he liked talking to you," he grinned. "He's a lively young man."

I gave him a look. He expressed puzzlement.

"Yes. It was nice to meet him." I said the next words slowly. "I also met Ruqya Bhabi today. And I asked Hafsa about her."

"Oh," he said. "Well. She's a good woman - she keeps Rahima Khala and Fahim very happy. I hope Allah blesses her with kind and obedient children soon, she deserves them, and a lot more."

"Ameen," I said, almost impressed. I didn't even know exactly why I had tried to make him speak about her; maybe it was how I myself couldn't stop thinking about her, or maybe I just wanted a glimpse of his opinion of her. Whatever the case, where on one hand I liked how he turned her topic into a prayer for her happiness, I didn't appreciate that he didn't even bother to mention how much strength the woman possessed.

Maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. I let it go.

"Uhm," he said as if hesitating to say something. "I need to get some work done, I hope you don't mind that?"

Oh boy. How do I tell you that I implicitly wish you'd do your work, ballet dance, wrestle the neighbour's dog - anything else, really, other than try to interact with me?

"Oh no, I don't mind at all," I said.

He nodded and took out some books of accounts and a couple of briefcases.

For some of the time that he remained deep in concentration after I'd prayed, I settled my already spotless and orderly cupboards, reshuffling my books and clothes slowly. Then I sat on the bed and scrolled through social media for some time, first replying to the not so great number of good wishes for my marriage, and then checking out how much of the world had changed since I'd been busy with the conquer and havoc of mine.

I was in the middle of contemplating whether or not I should call my mother telling her I missed her on literally the first day of my married life when I noticed what he was doing now.

He had a laptop open in front of him, and from the distant looks of it, he was busy typing something lengthy on it.

And I became restless.

I knew I shouldn't care, but regrettably, my curiosity was a huge negative aspect of my personality.

Carefully I picked up a neutral-sized black cushion that I had brought along with me for nostalgia purpose, and with the best aim I could muster, I threw it up. Straight it flew and landed the top shelf of the cupboard. Hasan didn't hear it.

"Uh," I said, peeking out from behind the cupboard door rather dramatically, and immediately he was looking towards me. "I need help."

"Yeah, say?"

"I can't reach that," I said, trying futilely to reach the top shelf. I previously wasn't even aware I had the ability of this much drama.

"Oh, no big problem," he said, and stood up, leaving the PC where it was.

"I'll need a stool, hold on a minute," he said and left the room.

I couldn't help a grin as I walked towards the PC.

To my inexplicable disappointment, though, I discovered that what he had been writing was nothing but a work email.

And what I had been expecting in the stead of some work-related writing, I did not know. Maybe I had thought it was a piece of literature. Maybe a digital journal. I didn't really expect anything, actually; just the fact that he was writing something had excited me to the point that I took so much effort just to take a look.