Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Yeah. The Islamic ceremony. The proper wedding will be later, probably Christmas. I’ll let you know when we fix a date. You’ll come, yeah?’ I try to lighten the mood but it doesn’t work and he doesn’t respond to my comment.

‘Before your birthday, then.’

‘You remember when my birthday is?’ I don’t know why, but the realisation that Adam, who can barely remember what we have planned next week, knows when my birthday is, makes me really, really sad.

‘Of course I do. Your dreaded thirtieth, when all your eggs will suddenly expire.’ There’s a bitterness in his tone, and I bristle at the implication of his words.

‘I’m not getting married to Hamza because of that,’ I reply defensively, frowning at him as he continues to pace.

‘If you say so,’ he mutters, kicking a stone on the ground so it flies up and hits the side of the building. I flinch.

‘I’m not!’

‘I thought you didn’t fancy him? And yet you’re marrying him?’ He doesn’t look at me as he says this, but carries on scuffing his boots on the ground.

‘I didn’t at first. But he grew on me. He earned my respect. He got my attention.’ I know I don’t have to justify myself to him, but I kind of do. I need him to know that I’m not marrying Hamza out of desperation.

‘Where’s the ring, then?’

‘It’s with him. He’ll give it to me on Saturday.’

He stops fidgeting and looks at me. His expression is completely unreadable and I have no idea what’s going through his head. I break eye contact and look down into my lap.

‘So, this is it? You’re getting married to Hamza on Saturday and nothing will change your mind?’

‘Yep. Are you happy for me?’ My stupid emotional eyes begin to water again and I brush them away before turning to look at Adam. His features soften for a second, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s thinking, or feeling.

‘If you’re happy, I’m happy,’ he says simply, and once more my heart feels like it’s going to explode with everything it’s holding that cannot be said.

‘Thank you. What was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘Nothing important. It can wait.’ He smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. We stare at each other for a few seconds more, but this time, I can’t bring myself to look away. In the end, it’s him who breaks eye contact by checking the time. ‘We’d better get back to work.’ With that, he walks away.

I stay on the steps for a few minutes after he’s left, thinking back to earlier this year when I showed him my biodata right here in the same exact place, and the way I felt when he told me that I look better in real life than in pictures. Then there was the time he handed me his jacket because I came down here without one in the freezing cold, and I wrapped it against me and inhaled his scent. Or was that the same time? I don’t know. We have too many memories around here, and not just out here, but in the office, in Wood Green, in North London. And after Saturday, it’s never going to be the same.