Part Three
Summer
Chapter 17
The holy month of Ramadan comes and goes. Like most Muslims around the world, for the past month I’ve been participating in Ramadan activities. This includes loads of things, like extra night prayers at the mosque, fasting from dawn to dusk, and reading the Holy Qur’an. But it’s not just about the rituals, though. Ramadan is also about reflection, spirituality, charity, compassion, forgiveness and self-control. And as part of the whole self-control aspect, I’ve been abstaining from unnecessarily communicating with all the men in my life. Including Hamza, Jordan and Adam (outside of working hours).
Hamza and I have texted occasionally but we both agreed that it wasn’t a good idea to meet up whilst fasting, and since sunset was around eight, with Tarawih prayers starting at nine thirty, there wasn’t any time to meet in the evening either. Well, it was actually his idea more than mine. After what happened at my event, he pretty much said he wanted some time out to reconfigure, and I suppose I needed the space too.
During our time apart, I realised that I have missed him a bit, although it isn’t a heart-wrenching longing that would inspire a sonnet; more like a vaguely wistful type of emptiness that would inspire a meme.
I really, really want to fall madly and deeply in love with Hamza. Everything would be so much easier if I did. I know I would have a simple, stress-free life with him. He’s so happy and unassuming, and he seems to genuinely like me. I could breeze through life with him at my side and I know he would be a great dad as well. I can tell he loves kids by the way he talks about his cousin’s children, not to mention the way he always stops to coo at babies whenever we’ve been out.
Anyway, maybe today will bring some clarity to the situation. Throughout Ramadan I prayed for God to help me come to a decision about him so I don’t waste his or my time anymore, and I’m hoping that today will push me towards the path I’m supposed to take.
The sticky, humid air assaults me as I jump off the bus and hurry towards Nando’s, where Hamza has been waiting for me for about half an hour now. I got stuck at work waiting for PR to come back with the final version of a press release they’re sending out tomorrow.
This summer has been an odd one so far; blistering one week, chilly the next. Today is hot; so hot that my cotton dress is sticking to me and I have to keep dabbing at my face with blotting paper to absorb the excess sweat. Not the ideal climate to reunite with Hamza but it will have to do.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ I say as I enter the cool, air-conditioned restaurant and approach him.
‘It’s OK, Eid Mubarak, habibti,’ Hamza replies with a warm smile as he gets up and knocks into at least three tables while walking towards me. This is the first time we’re meeting since the event and I’ve been a bit nervous about how he’ll act around me, but it seems as if I had nothing to worry about.
‘Eid Mubarak to you too,’ I reply with genuine warmth. He leans in for a quick hug and before I can pull away, kisses me on the top of my head, sending a jolt through my body. I know it’s not a sexy kiss, and it could easily have been an exchange between relatives, but I could feel the emotion in that gesture and I know it wasn’t something he did without thinking. He probably did it to let me know that what happened at the event is forgiven, but even so, my stomach starts to churn as I’m overcome with a sensation of déjà vu. That was how it started last time.
I’m too embarrassed to pull away, so I stand there limply and comply without fuss, even though I’m uncomfortable. On the outside, I look as cool as a cucumber in a sunhat, but on the inside, I’m a wreck. Within seconds I’ve worked myself up into a panic. What is he doing? It was the holy month of Ramadan mere hours ago, for crying out loud! I thought he respected my need for distance? I knew I should have said something after the event. By shoving it under the rug, he seems to think I was OK with it, with him showing up unannounced and hugging me in front of all those people. But how could I have brought it up, when his embrace was trumped by my surprise online flirtation appearing in the flesh?
The fact that we’re in my ends doesn’t help the situation. I feel clammy and panicky, and I keep scanning the restaurant to check if there’s anyone I know. What was I thinking, suggesting coming here? Well, I do know what I was thinking. I was thinking how nice it would be to walk home in five minutes without having to get an expensive Uber or endure a long train ride in this heat. In my defence, I didn’t expect respectful, sensitive Hamza to suddenly start touching me up.
‘How was your Ramadan and Eid?’ he asks, returning from placing our order with his arms full of plates, cutlery and sauces. I stare at him warily, but his face gives nothing away, so I decide to play it his way. I’m probably overreacting. Maybe the kiss wasn’t as orchestrated as I assumed and he did it without thinking. In fact, maybe he does it to everyone, and the fact that he hasn’t been kissing my head all this time is what’s weird?
‘It was good,’ I say, helping him unload the plates as I launch into what I’ve been doing for the past month. He does the same, making me chuckle with his accounts of how hungry he was, and how he fell asleep every night during Tarawih prayers, right there in the mosque. I start to relax in his presence and try to forget about the earlier awkwardness. Until his hand brushes mine, and I snatch it away, accidentally knocking my fork onto the floor as I do. I jump up and go and get another, but when I return to the table, the mood has changed and Hamza’s expression has darkened.
‘You OK?’ I ask lightly, sitting back down. He grunts in response and busies himself with taking all the chicken off the bones, his movements so harsh that it looks like he’s decapitating the bird.
‘Are you sure?’ I try again, trying to keep my voice from betraying my irritation. All this passive aggression is a bit uncharacteristic for Hamza. He says nothing, but sighs loudly instead.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the problem?’ Exasperated, I put the fork down with the chicken still pierced into it, a little louder than I had intended. It clangs against the plate, and I wince, hoping that no one has noticed that I’m about to experience my first domestic. I’m not one for public scenes, and judging by the look on his face, neither is he.
‘Do we have to do this here?’ he says from between clenched teeth, and I’m surprised by the sharpness of his tone. It’s the first time I’ve seen Hamza with his feathers this ruffled, and to be honest, I’m not sure I like it.
‘If you don’t want to talk about it, why are you huffing and puffing and sighing then?’ I demand, my voice rising a notch.
‘I’m not “huffing and puffing”, he huffs, crossing his arms defensively and staring down at his plate.
After a minute of awkward silence, I take a deep breath and tentatively reach over to him, placing my hand on his arm. ‘What’s going on, Hamza?’ I say gently. ‘You don’t seem like yourself.’
There’s another silence as he pushes the food around on his plate and then he finally puts his fork down and looks up at me.
‘So it’s OK for you to touch my arm, but I can’t touch yours?’
Fire burns in my cheeks as the sympathy I was previously experiencing flies out the window. I snatch my hand away.
‘Is this what your little mood is about, then? Me not wanting to touch a non-mahram man?’
‘Not related? Seriously?’ he says this with such a look of incredulity that I know that he’s thinking I’m a complete phony, using Islamic terminology when I barely practise the basics of Islam.
‘Yes, seriously! Do you have something to say about that?’ I seethe, daring him to throw in my face that, until this Ramadan, I rarely prayed, and I don’t cover, so why am I acting like I care about getting too close to a non-related man?