Less Than Perfect

{10} Breaking Cupid's Arrow

Adnan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the glare of the lights against his glasses. "So you really have no reservations about how you want a 'proper' wife to react?" he asked in a mocking tone.

"You both seem to think I will say something negative about Kanza and her choices. Truthfully, I find her consistent work on the internet in dispelling misconceptions about Muslims to be honorable. It takes a lot of effort to stand up for oneself," he said before leaning forward on his arms, gaze matching Adnan's intensity, a burning flare in his eyes, scorching the hazel specks in a forest of green. "As for your comments about a 'proper' wife, I think any man that uses such a statement is among the lowest of the low."

Dayyan's gaze quickly shifted to me, his confidence faltering as he searched for approval in my eyes. Though I could appreciate his response to my direct, forward questions that were more like an interrogation than a first "date," I frankly didn't care. My lips were pursued. 

Muslims weren't the types to date around before marriage. A date in Western culture entitled to more than what Islam allowed.

To Muslims, marriage was a pure, special commitment one made to their spouse. When problems arise, the couple must do everything in their ability to weave the loose threads back into the knots of unity, to put their prides aside to balance the love between them. 

Sure, divorce was an option, but it should never be the early action taken when life had unexpected turns. For that reason, choosing a spouse based on fundamentals that build a loving unit  was desired. There was so much emphasis on love in America that people forgot that love did not guarantee a content married life. 

Plenty of married couples loved each other and still went their separate ways. Plenty of married couples loved each other till their hearts bled and it still was not enough to save their families from falling apart. 

Their love was like a wilted rose, painful to touch but breathtaking to look at. As time went on, the beauty of their unity faltered and fell, life draining out of the once vibrant, red petals that bore their strength proudly. As external pressure and internal aches ensued, the red dripped like blood on an open wound, nothing left to seal the pain away and memories engraved into the gaps their love left behind. 

My lips quirked a sly smile as I rested my chin on my fist, elbow pressed down on the table and eyes holding his cocky gaze with a threatening flare. "Now, tell me," I drawled, "did you come prepared with every answer I'd like to hear?"

He scoffed. "Do you really think I'd tell you a bunch of lies?"

I laughed. "Oh, please. I don't think you're capable of telling me lies when your body movements explain everything."

At this, Adnan turned to me, incredulous that I could suspect such a thing with ease. I knew my brothers and their personalities better than I knew my own, and I knew Adnan saw through Dayyan's mask, saw past the flashing smiles and elated eyes and into the darkness he was harboring. He felt uneasy, and so did I. 

His brows scrunched in confusion. "What?" 

I shot Adnan a look to keep him quiet. "Look, kid-"

"I'm clearly not a kid anymore and neither are you," interrupted Dayyan. 

Straightening, I smiled coyly. "How could I ever forget the little boy that found every excuse to attack me as a child?" I questioned too sweetly. "But that's not why I'm calling you out."

Dayyan chuckled deeply, seeing my sarcasm as a charm. "I never pegged you to be the petty type, Kanza. Come on, sweetheart, let's not dig up the past."

"Let's not use pet names while the mahram is present," Adnan coughed.