It's Not That Bad, Part 1

Black velvet  wasn't a great choice of fabric for this early September evening if I'm being honest.  It was, however, the perfect fabric to complement the tea length, pearl colored organza circle skirt I'd drawn in my design. Renuka Aunty, my seamstress and years long confidante had warned me I'd be too warm if we'd made the top of the gown black velvet, but we'd agreed that nothing else would have worked. So, I am braving a 76 degree evening in velvet and organza. Committed to glamour and addicted to compliments. 

"Salima! Habibti, your gown is as lovely as you!" 

"Salima, beta! So modest and so elegant. It must be so hard to find a husband worthy of you." 

"Salima, hayati! Another custom piece? You're spoiled! How can you afford all these in this economy?" 

"Thank you's", shukran's", and "shukria's" rolled off of my tongue with ease as I danced around the ballroom to receive the compliments that so excited me. I'm not one of those people embarrassed about attention. I have been beautiful my entire life, I love the great joy people feel when they see me. I love to delight them with my fashions and hairstyles. I feel that beauty is a blessing and it is not prudent to be shy of what God has given. I've been graced with the kind of beauty that is palatable for most. If you're aware of the Kibbe system, I fall under Romantic. At five feet, three inches I am petite. Small enough to make most everyone comfortable around me, but just tall enough to not be childlike. My face is just angular enough to be striking, but my features are gentle and lush, a warm inviting face. My teeth are perfectly straight and gloriously white, making it clear that I am cleanly and well bred. My flesh is soft and my body is curvy, giving me a helpless sort of look that makes people want to watch over me. And my tan olive skin and lush black hair make all types of people feel that I belong with them. I have been very blessed by Allah (SWT) and I don't intend to disregard that. 

Prior to fixing my disordered eating, I could have gone all night without a single grumble from my belly, but since completing a metabolic reset 2 weeks ago, I can't go 4 hours without my stomach badgering me for more food. Greedy, greedy. 

By the time I'd finished my compliment walkabout, I was dizzy from hunger. The SWANA Business Gala should have known better than to not have some little snacks out an hour into the cocktail hour, but clearly someone on their staff was out to starve me to death. Uncertain of when I would see food and beginning to feel irate from hunger, I decided to go search for the kitchen. 

I'd picked out this venue and convinced all of the uncles on the board to vote for it. Though they rarely listen to me because I'm a 26 year old woman, they are easily swayed when it comes to venues, decor, and anything else they don't actually like arguing about. Though pricy, what could have been better for our gala than a hundred year old boutique hotel built to satisfy the Egyptomania craze of the early 1900's? I reveled in the beauty of my venue as I sashayed through the greenhouse atrium separating the ballroom from the kitchen. The starry night above the tropical trees, the splashing of the water fixtures, and the thickness of the brush enclosing the walkway reminded me of the way it felt to read "The Most Dangerous Game". That Richard Connel story where they hunt humans on an island in the Caribbean. My imagination got the best of me; what had just been very beautiful suddenly became eerie and I began to feel very meek and fearful. What if someone was hunting me in the atrium? 

Nervous without reason and quiet as a dormouse, I scampered down the path. Unfortunately, in my rush, I'd stopped paying attention to my surroundings and failed to see a shadowy figure ahead of me. 

With a great thud, I slammed into the figure and gave loud yelp upon realizing I had indeed been being hunted! 

"No! Don't hurt me!" I pleaded. Having lost my wits. 

I was holding my hands up and covering my eyes for some reason. I suppose the hunger was making me irrational. I just couldn't bear to see the face of my attacker! Though I couldn't see, I could smell that he was smoking a cigarette, an American Spirit cigarette. I thought he must have been some kind of twisted old freak to be in the atrium hunting me having an American Spirit. 

"Salima, what the hell is wrong with you?" A familiar voice brought me back to reality. 

I gulped a ginormous gulp and wondered why this was happening to me. 

I separated my fingers just enough to look through them in order to confirm that the voice belonged to who I thought it did. Through my fingers I saw the face of my enemy. Big hooked nose, a big trout mouth, and hair more styled than any man should style his hair framed by my index and middle fingers. 

"You don't have to be so mean to me all the time, Badr! I haven't ever done anything to you" I whined, still covering my eyes.

"You look ridiculous, take your hands off of your eyes." Badr replied coldly. 

Badr is the only person in the world that doesn't think I'm beautiful. He hates me. When he's not ignoring me, he is humiliating me. I think he is jealous of me because before I came to town, he was the most beautiful and most fawned over. He was just coasting by on his beauty. He doesn't even work hard to give people a lovely show. If he wants to be the most fawned over, he should try harder than just using a diffuser and some mousse. 

"You shouldn't smoke cigarettes" I retorted under my breath as I brought my hands to my chest and crossed my arms.

Badr looked me right in the eyes as he took a long draw from his American Spirit. He took just as long to exhale then smirked at me. "You didn't mind it when you were seeing me." He patronized.

He knew I'd be too embarrassed by him saying that to respond, so without hesitation, he stepped around me and walked back towards the ballroom. He only smoked cigarettes when he was anxious while we were seeing each other. Only a few times a month. He certainly wasn't enough of an addict to smoke at a party back then. Frustrated by him, I stomped my way to the kitchen and found myself some snacks.

As you can imagine, the SWANA Business Gala is a "dry" party. However, I'd made Hamza Uncle believe it was his idea to have tables with shisha fixtures in the center and hoses that ran under the tables and could reach each seat. They were a hit and I was lightheaded from them. So light headed that I'd forgotten I was meant to perform Bali Ma'ak before they served dinner. Well, I forgot until Hamza Uncle announced it from the stage. 

"We are so blessed to have our dear Salima, the youngest and most talented member of our board here to sing us one of Lena Chamamyan's classics." Hamza Uncle beamed as he gestured in my direction. 

Wobbly from the shisha, I slowly rose from my chair and smiled at the 150 people in the room. 

"Salima's theater has elevated our area's short term visitors and single-handed increased revenue for the entire town!" He announced as I slowly walked towards the stage.

I am very comfortable with my beauty being glorified. That is not something I put my heart and soul into. Talk of my work, however, makes me very shy. Something about my work being perceived makes me feel very vulnerable. I did my best not to show that to the 150 guests. I just smiled and waved to them. 

Hamza Uncle hugged me when I got on stage and he looked at me with the pride of a father. Unwilling to let him down, I delivered a heartfelt performance on Bali Ma'ak. 

I couldn't help, but wonder if my thoughts would ever be with someone. 

Dinner was divine, a delicious mix of flavors, all of my favorites. It was as though the menu had been made for me and I hadn't have even tampered in the food! Curry goat, Molokhia, Kibbehs, pomegranate salad, and even snapper! I'd never been to glad to have been rid of my eating disorder. I was pretending to listen to the conversation at my table, but actually was focusing on getting all the meat off of the bones on my share of snapper when Hamza Uncle yelled out and tried to ruin my evening. 

"Salima! Enjoying the snapper are you?" He chortled. 

I wanted to die. My mouth was full of snapper and tabbouleh. I couldn't even talk. I just nodded and gave him a closed mouth nod. 

He laughed some more. "It was expensive, but Badr insisted on it. He said everyone would enjoy it." 

"Oh! Of course Badr handled the catering! He is so thoughtful and has such good taste! So handsome too, mashaAllah!" Some aunty exclaimed. 

Soon all the aunties started blabbering about how handsome Badr is. "MashaAllah! MashaAllah! Ohh mashaAllah!" They sang out like some sort of choir. The uncles provided the baritone to their soprano song of Badr's praise, all giving approving "mhm's and humph's" while raising their hands. I guess it was clear by my face and lack of participation that I didn't like Badr very much because they all turned to me as though I was insane for not joining in. 

"What is wrong with you, Salima?" An aunty I literally didn't know called me out. 

I frowned. "Nothing. I'm just in the middle of eating. Do I need to stop to praise Badr?" I snapped, out of character and shocking the table. 

Realizing that I needed to collect myself, I smiled and with sweetness in my voice said "Badr is very good at these things. Can't you see I'm enjoying his talents?"

That made things right for them, I suppose because they left me alone. 

There were loads of speeches after dinner and they were all very lovely except for one from Mr. Elliot Swift, one of the token white people invited. He is the co-owner of one of a board member's real estate development firm. He yapped and yapped and yapped about how honored  he was to be at this great cultural event. There was nothing cultural about the event. It was a regular gala, but with brown people. He was really getting on my nerves. After he was done running his mouth, Hamza Uncle invited all the single people to the dance floor. He hates to see young people be single. 

I went, of course, I'm not particularly fond of how single I am either. I'd designed my dress with a circle skirt in an effort to look extra fabulous on the dance floor. Like in a period piece, I'd arranged for there to be dance cards for everyone. I thought that would be fun. However, Hamza Uncle had requested to choose the first line of everyone's dance cards since that would be the singles only dance. 

Fatima Hussain was in front of me in line for the dance cards. Her mother ows a string of modest fashion stores around her area. She was offended when I came to her house and refused to eat a banana with my food. I know it's a Somali custom and I've heard it's very delicious, but I hate bananas. The smell alone makes me queasy. Fatima had been kind enough to fib for me, she told her mother I had a severe allergy. I felt like we had a bond after that, so I thought it would be okay to ask Fatima to tighten the corset on my gown while we waited. I tapped her on the shoulder and smiled when she turned around. She smiled back and gave me a hug. 

"Salam, Salima! I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were behind me. Please forgive me! It's so nice to see you. You look so beautiful as always." Her words sprinkled out sweet and soft as powdered sugar. 

She smelled amazing. She honestly looked like an angel from heaven in her shimmering champagne butterfly abaya and white hijab. I don't think I've ever met a hijabi that wasn't radiant, but Fatima's radiance stood out. 

"Wa salaam!" I  chirped back, trying to match her excitement. "No need to apologize, Fatima. It's so busy in here. I was wondering if maybe you could tighten my corset for the dancing? I really want my dress to spin!" I requested of her eagerly. 

"Oh oh! Of course. Turn around and just tell me when to stop" she directed me. 

As Fatima tightened my dress, I looked around at the males waiting for us. They looked rather dopey in my opinion. Nervous and hodge podge. Some of them in thobes, others in suits, and the rest in variations of desi wear. I thought they were, frankly, undeserving of dancing with the carefully groomed young ladies in line with me. It's not very becoming of me to judge. 

"Tight enough?" Fatima sang. 

I ran my hands down my waist to check before replying "perfect!". 

Waiting for my dance card actually made me very nervous. Curry goat, though my favorite food, was not the best choice before potentially meeting the love of my life while dancing romantically. I'd done my best to scrub the curry out of my manicure right after dinner, but the tips of my French manicure were still a little bit yellowish green. My grandmother says I'll never find a husband if I keep finishing my plate and I thought that if my dance partner/ potential love of my life saw my curry stained nails he'd know I finished my whole plate. 

"Salima" Fatima whispered. 

I stopped obsessing over my curry nails and gave her my attention. "What's up, girlboss?" 

"Hamza Uncle asked the ladies in my mother's book clubs to help him make the best matches for the dance cards." She gossiped. 

That didn't surprise me. "I thought he would do something like that." I whispered back. 

Angelic Fatima's smile turned slightly devious and she leaned in closer to me. "I overheard Faiza's mother trying to convince him to put her to dance with Abdalla or Badr because they're the most handsome. Hamza Uncle told her that it's better to put Faiza with a partner equally yoked." 

I'd never heard Fatima gossip at all, so I was astonished to see her burst out in laughter at the factoid she'd just shared. 

"Fatima! Astags!" I snickered. "I'm surprised at you!" 

She took a deep breath, slowing her laughter. "I'm just saying. He basically said he's putting hot people with hot people." 

We burst out in laughter again but quickly hushed ourselves. We were only two people away from getting our cards.

"Faiza also doesn't have a job and doesn't do anything with herself. Maybe that's what he's referring to." I tried to be kind. 

Fatima rolled her eyes and replied "that too, but I think the greatest deterrent is that she wears her foundation 8 shades too fair."

I "tsked" her and tilted my chin up, letting her know she was next to receive her dance card. 

As she took her's in hand, my nerves returned, I tried to guess who my partner would be. I became even more unsettled when in my musings, I considered that Hamza Uncle could have matched me with an uggo. What if he thought I was equally yoked with an uggo? Or even worse, a man that is sassy! I figured that was all crazy to think of. That Hamza Uncle is not blind and he would have certainly matched me with someone perfect for me. He must have matched me with Abdalla. No offense to Faiza. 

"Oh yay!" Fatima squealed as she looked at her card. 

She turned to me and dragged me forward. I wondered who she'd gotten and my compulsion to know overtook my desire to get my dance card so I grabbed her and asked her to show it to me. She obliged, giddily. 

Abdalla Sherif 

Was written on the top of her dance card. DAMN. 

Being phony, I jumped up and down with her and gave my congrats before I turned 'round to the Aunty holding my card. I recognized her from my table. She had the biggest smile on her face as she extended her hand holding her card out to me. 

"You must be Hamza's favorite, habibti!" She declared. "He has blessed you with the cream of the crop." 

I smiled, excited again. I wondered who Hamza Uncle had found for me that was better than Abdalla. 

"Thank you, Auntie!" I said gracefully as I took my card. 

I swear the room went quiet as I opened my dance card. Everyone was watching me. Then...everyone watched my smile dissolve into disgust. Written in black ink and careful cursive at the top of my card was:

Badr Badawi

Faiza kept looking like she wanted to beat me senseless as we made our way to the dance floor. Her frustration was in many ways justified. Even I would never deny Badr's attractiveness. None of them knew we'd seen each other for a bit years prior. They don't know why we broke up. Even I don't know what happened. It happened very fast. Regardless, I refused to make a scene. I would dance with Badr.

I was looking down to avoid having to look at Badr as he walked over to me to escort me to dance, but the dance floor was so shiny that I saw him reflected in it. 

"Salima, come." He said quietly, tensely. 

I obliged, but I rejected the hand he had outstretched for me. Instead I walked towards the center of the dance floor without looking at him. 

“Salima, Jesus Christ.” He hissed. “Don't make a scene here.”

I ignored him. How could I be making a scene without speaking to him? 

Choosing his battles, Badr followed me. 

I was admiring how pretty my black Manolo pumps looked against the white marble dance floor when Badr ruined the beauty of it all by placing his giant flipper shoes right in front of my little Manolos. I didn't look up at him, I couldn't stand the sight of him. 

“Please just behave, Salima” he whispered, gently. 

Behave. He'd always taken pleasure in treating me like I'm some sad little child. Enraged by his patronization, I stepped on his toe. 

Ugh. He grunted, likely more from annoyance than pain. 

“I'm not a child.” I spat at him, finally looking up.

Unfortunately, when my eyes met his, they were met with the same rage that had just driven me to step on him. 

I was just about to apologize when he took both of my wrists in one hand, my waist in the other, pulled me into himself, and whispered “and I am not your fucking father. If you do anything like that again, I will leave you alone on this dance floor.”

 He'd never been that vocal when we were together. 

“You're hurting me.” I whined into his chest.

“It hurt when you stepped on my foot.” He held my wrists even tighter. 

I looked up at him in a plea for mercy. Having made his point, he released my left hand and cradled the right. I rested my left hand on his shoulder, he thumbed the small of my waist. I shuddered.

The music began, a familiar D note on Piano and Tambourine. Maar Dala. Fitting 

Yeh kiski hai aahat 

Badr stepped back, I followed. 

Yeh kiska hai saaya 

Badr danced me to the side.

Huyi dil mei dastak 

We moved forward. 

Yaha kaun aaya 

He spun me. I noticed the lights were lower. I saw Hamza Uncle in the corner of my eye. 

Hum pe yeh kisne

He brought me back to him. I steadied myself using his shoulder. 

Hara rang dala 

His left foot stepped back, my right followed. 

Oh-ohhh, hum pe yeh kisne

Faiza planted herself and her partner right behind us. 

Hara rang dala

I lifted my leg as Badr returned to me. 

Khushi ne humari hame

Badr smiled and grabbed my leg? He was having fun? 

Maar Dala 

He dipped me. I smiled. Hamza Uncle watched intently. 

Oh-oh Maar dala 

I reveled in the security of his large hand cradling my back. 

Maar dala 

I remembered that I'd loved him. 

Ha-ah maar dala

He pulled me towards him again, closer than before. Inches from his lips. 

Hum par yeh kisne

The song sped up, so did we. 

Harang rang dala 

We skipped ins circle with the other couples. 

Kushi ne hamari 

We spun away from each other.

Hame maar dala 

We spun back.

Hame maar dala

Faiza spun into Badr 

Hame maar dala 

Badr let me go to catch her

Hame

She attached herself to Badr

Allah

He pushed her away 

Maar Dala

She laughed 

Allah 

He frowned 

Maar dala 

She stepped towards him again

Allah 

I pushed Faiza with all of my might, knocking her to the ground. 

Everyone stopped dancing because Faiza squealed like some fearful pig when I pushed her. She had laid herself out on the dirty, cold marble and began rocking herself back and forth while holding her leg. Faiza is a notorious gossip, meddler, and bitch; so no one offered her help or sympathy. 

“Faiza, get up.” I rolled my eyes at her. 

“You assaulted me!” She shouted,still pretending to be in pain. 

“Get real, you tried to steal my boyfriend from me.” I replied. 

Faiza’s entire charade came to a screeching halt. She dropped her leg, popped up, and said “your what?”

I hadn’t realized I’d called Badr my boyfriend yet, so I said “My dance partner! Tf is wrong with you?”

Faiza’s pointy, pale face contorted into a sinister grin. She looked at me, then at Badr, then at me again. Then, with the cruelty of a storybook villain she said “you called Badr your boyfriend. You’ve been pretending to hate Badr because you secretly are obsessed with him!” 

“What are we on the Disney Channel?” I snapped at her. 

Faiza recoiled a bit at my insinuation of her immaturity. Annoyed at the entire situation, I turned on my heel and walked away. I walked by Hamza Uncle who was sitting in his seat, shocked at what he’d just seen unfold. I walked past Badr’s mother who looked like she was telling everyone on WhatsApp what had just happened. Then,I walked right into the atrium. 

I was very angry. Perhaps not truly angry, but very upset. I didn’t know how I felt. I didn’t know why I’d called Bard my boyfriend. I didn’t know why it embarrassed me so much that I’d said that in public. I just all around didn’t know. My face was hot and my velvet top was making me hotter, but I couldn’t make myself stop pacing around the atrium. 

I couldn’t make myself stop pacing. However, two big, strong hands could…and they did. One hand grabbed my wrist and spun me around, the other braced my neck to take the force of all 6 '1 and 220 pounds of Badr pressing me against a tree and kissing me. Though I couldn’t really see him, I knew his kiss like I knew my name. I protested, confused. 

“Badr! What the hell?” I whispered. 

He pulled back, but I held him in place. “You lied to me,” he said, calmly. 

“About what?” I questioned him. 

He frowned in annoyance and began to untangle himself from me. I had a visceral reaction to losing physical contact with him. “No!” I yelped. 

His frown deepened and he removed his knee from between my thighs. “No!” I whisper shouted. 

I needed his knee teasing me and his tongue in my mouth. I was perhaps…fiending for it? I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back to me.

“Please, Badr.” I pleaded. 

“Why?” He replied coldly. 

I didn't know. It had been four years since I'd been that close to him. I hadn't thought of him romantically in at least three years. Yet, just a few moments of his touch had me needing him like a junkie needs the needle. 

“You're hot?” I said timidly. 

That must've been the wrong answer because he got really mad at me. “Because I'm hot? You pushed Faiza and called me your boyfriend because I'm ‘hot’?” he fumed. 

“Lower your voice, Badr!” I pleaded. 

He stepped back again, I held his shirt with an iron grip. Taking a longer look at him, I realized he wasn't angry so much as he was frustrated. His muscular arms were limp at his sides, his fists were clenched, and his eyes were pleading…yearning for something…yearning for me? 

“Badr… I'm sorry I upset you by doing that.” I said quietly. “I know you don't feel that way about me. I was just. I don't know. I just felt jealous and I was acting without thinking.”

I looked down, not wanting him to see the shame on my face. He sighed and removed my hand from his shirt. I felt so humiliated by it all that anger began to boil up in me. I tried to snatch my hand out of his, but he held onto it. “Why does  he insist on humiliating me over and over again?” I thought. Hadn't I had enough? Defeated, I looked up at him and whimpered. The look on his face shocked me. His eyes were gentle, humble, and inviting. I hadn't seen his eyes that way in years. He raised my hand to his lips and gently kissed it. 

“Jealous, why?” He whispered into my hand. 

I fell to pieces. I just stood there with my mouth open, my stomach on the ground, and my hand in his. He stroked my hand with his thumb before taking a step towards me, closing the space between us. 

“Why, Salima?” He whispered into my hair. 

I didn't know why. It had been years. I had moved on. He had moved on. We’d both had a menagerie of affairs since last we'd loved each other. I enjoyed mine and from what I could tell, he’d enjoyed his. So, why were we there? 

“We were together long enough for you to know that I hate to be ignored,” he susserated, brushing his lips against my ear. 

I could hardly hear him over the sound of my heart pumping my blood south.

Frustrated with me, he took a deep breath and tilted his head back. In doing so, he brushed his beard against my temple, prompting me to inhale jaggedly. Wanting to do something, anything to keep him near me, I tilted my head up to face him. The moon glow created a halo that perfectly framed him and highlighted his mane of wavy black hair. It reflected off the silver threads embroidered into his vest and danced across the platinum links of his chain. Surrounded by the lush green of the garden, he was something like the first angel to fall into the Garden of Eden. He was a vision. The look of frustration afflicting his features became him, it reminded me of nights I'd spent teasing him under dining tables years before. Nights that left me both full of him and hungry for more. He licked his full lips in attempt to quell his frustration before parting them to speak again. They glistened invitingly as he breathed in the cool night air. With his breath, he drew me in and just as a word was about to leave his lips, I trapped it in his mouth with a kiss. Emboldened by ardor and guided by muscle memory, my tongue slipped past his lips and though surprised, he accepted me. It was as though my entire body was warmed by the heat of his mouth. Perhaps made uncomfortable by our significant height difference, Badr lowered himself. He grabbed my ass through the layers of organza covering it and pushing my tongue out of his own mouth, forcefully explored the delicate intricacies of mine. He mauled at the velvet covering my waist as I ran my hands through his hair, making sure to scratch at his scalp with my nails. He groaned into my mouth, put his hands behind my knees, and lifted me into the tree behind us. The sting of the rough bark against my bare back mingled with the softness of his lips caressing mine, making me drunk with desire for the man I'd been shunning for years. Desperate for more of Badr, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him to me. I closed my eyes as memories of his hardness flooded my mind while I anticipated it. But…it never came. I squeezed my legs around him again, trying to pull him, but was met with resistance. Confused and irked, I snapped my eyes open to see what was going on. 

“Salima…” Badr looked into my eyes. “Answer me.” 

When we'd been each other’s, I’d fantasized about him begging me. I'd wanted him to beg me for commitment, to beg me for more time, to beg me to stay…Then, there, I didn't know what to do with the begging. I couldn't find the right words to say. Hoping to avoid answering again, I learned in to kiss him. He turned his head, shunning me. 

“Not until you answer me”

Defeated, I wiggled my legs, signaling him to put me down. He obliged. My legs felt like jello when I tried to stand on them and my panties were uncomfortably wet. I glanced down at his crotch and was delighted to see a long, thick outline pressing against the fabric. 

“Stop staring at it!” 

Badr and I both laughed at me being caught. The laughter felt familiar, safe even. 

“I just, I don't know Badr. Because I felt like…I feel like you're mine.” 

He stopped laughing, but kept smiling. “You feel like I'm yours?” 

Embarrassment curdled the blood in my veins. When he said it back to me, I realized how absurd it sounded. 

“I- I didn't mean it like that. I just I meant that-”

He cut me off “you meant that you feel like I'm yours.” 

When he said it that time, his smile was gone, replaced by something serious. He took my hand, pulled me off of the tree, and into his chest. I breathed in his cologne, the same cologne he'd always worn. It intoxicated me. The depth of the oud intertwined with vanilla and tobacco felt like one of the many fall nights we’d spent at jazz clubs together. 

I was too drunk to speak, I nodded. 

“No, Salima. I need to hear it from you. You can't just nod.” He whispered. 

There was a desparation in his voice that I'd never heard before. I could feel the hurt I’d once brought him like  it had never really left, but instead stayed dormant for all these years. Like it had been waiting for a chance to come out and hold me accountable for every cutting word I'd ever thrown in his direction. I was so overwhelmed. Minutes earlier he and I were arguing, disgruntled by forced proximity to each other. How was it that now, we were tangled in each other and continuing a conversation we’d sprinted away from years ago? 

“Badr…this doesn't.” 

“Salima.” He paused. 

He looked at me for a long while before closing his eyes and running his hand through his hair. When he opened his eyes, they held an emotion I had never seen in him before. His eyes were wet, as though tears were just about to fall from them, but he’d fought them back. They shook, ever so slightly, as though they didn't want to see me, but he was forcing them to. He was- 

“Please don't do this to me again” he whispered as placed his head in my neck. 

I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself. I had never seen him or any man in such a state. I've bragged, and bragged, and bragged about how men pine after me, I know they do. I'd, however, never seen the pining in person before that moment. I couldn't believe that I was witnessing Badr yearning. His yearning made me feel electric. I felt so powerful. He could do anything to me. He is stronger than me, I am truthfully helpless should he choose to exact his will on me. But he didn't. He fought back his urges, he humbled himself, and he made himself captive to me. His feelings for me reduced him to begging me for an answer. I pitied him. Swallowing my pride and gathering my courage, I combed my fingers through his inky black waves, cupped his face with my hands, tilted his head up, and said. 

“Yes, Badr. I feel like you’re mine. Do you?” 

“Do you feel like you're mine?” He countered. 

I frowned. I hadn't thought of that. Do I feel like I'm his? I wondered what that meant to him. I felt that he was mine because…well, because despite the years and space, I could still feel his presence. He'd never stopped haunting my dreams, he'd haunted my waking hours by appearing to me in the strangest places, and he'd never let me stop feeling for him. I am my own to control, so, I transformed those feelings into resentment. What else was I to do? Allow them to be love for a man that so flippantly walked away from me? I could never do that. I am no fool. Since I am no fool, I understand that my will is not as powerful a force as the divine. I always knew my feelings for him were different, ungovernable. That he had been mine for many lifetimes. I just decided that we wouldn't be together this time around. That it was too hard. I never once thought about whether or not I felt that I was his. Perhaps because regardless of whether or not I feel like I'm his or felt like I was at any point, I don't want to belong to Badr…to anyone. I thought of all this while he gazed upon me with glistening brown eyies reflecting the moonlight and exuding the patience he has always been so renowned for. I then thought that it would be rather lonely to go my entire life alone because I feared (?) what it meant to belong to someone and acknowledge it. I then realized that despite my resolution to resent Badr, he still occupied the back of mind, taking up space and making it belong to him. Would it not be more pleasant to accept the things that I cannot change? Would God grant me the serenity to do so? The wisdom to know the difference between what I cannot change and what I do not have the courage to make a change to? It all became too much to process there in front of him. I began to cry. Like some sad, scared child. Out of control and commandeered by frustration, I pushed him. I pushed him with all my might and he didn't move an inch. In fact, he looked down at me with happiness in his eyes and as though he knew something I did not. Then, he held me. He wrapped his arms around me, pressed my head to his chest, and rocked me. Like some sad, scared child. 

“Yes, I feel like I'm yours.” I whimpered

. 

Using his pointer, he tilted my chin up to face him. Using the pad of his thumb, he wiped the tears from my eyes. Using the two fingers together, he held my face still while he leaned down to kiss me. Unfortunately, the moment was cut short. 

“ Keep it halal.” Hamza Uncle bellowed from across the garden. “Your mother sent me out looking for you two. She thinks I ‘stirred the pot’ too much.” 

Badr and I both had forgotten about the party we’d fled from. Embarrassed by the indecency of my position, I began to untangle myself from Badr. Hamza Uncle was rather humored by the sight of me. Badr didn’t seem embarrassed at all, he actually looked rather annoyed. 

“I’m 30 years old, I don’t give a shit who sees us.” Badr replied sternly once Hamza Uncle was next to us. 

“You’re 30 years old and I had to save your relationship for you, boy. 3 years since I talked to you about this and still I had to intervene.” 

Badr frowned. “I would have done it at the right time.” 

I found them having an entire conversation as though I wasn’t there to be pretty rude, so I interjected. “Pardon me?” 

I suppose they didn’t hear me. 

“You would have? Before or after Abdalla called her father? Was the ‘right time’ going to happen before Monday when he made arrangements to have lunch with her father?” 

“Abdalla?” Badr scoffed before suddenly becoming insecure, then he turned to me and whispered “are you seeing Abdalla?” 

“No! I’ve only ever seen him in group settings. I see him a lot and I think he likes me, but I didn't know he was speaking to my father!” Suddenly, I realized that Abdalla was so obsessed with me that he was going to call my father. I turned to Hamza Uncle and very coyly said “Abdalla was speaking to my father?”

Hamza Uncle stared into Badr’s eyes and nodded. I became very excited and overwhelmed, perhaps even giddy at all of this new information. After years of being single, a proposal was on the way and Hamza Uncle knew, but then…chose Badr to be my dance partner to “save his [Badr’s] relationship” with who? With me. I frowned realizing something that filled my veins with hot rage and made my heart feel like concrete. I turned to Badr and in one of the fits of rage I'd so desperately worked on controlling, I shoved  him. “You've wanted to get back together this entire time and you misled me to believe you hated me! You charlatan! You've made a fool of me!” I screamed. 

Badr swatted me away and disgruntled by my name calling, took on a condescending tone. “I didn't want to get back together the whole time. I wanted you to grow the fuck up so you wouldn't be so difficult to out up with. If I wanted to be with you, I would have been with you.” 

If my skin weren't so brown, it would have turned red, but it is very brown, so it just felt hot from embarrassment. Badr must have felt bad about the way he’d phrased things because he dropped his snideness, took my hand, and pulled me to him the moment he saw the look on my face. 

“I've told you both- only say nice things to each other.” Hamza Uncle chuckled. “You two can really hurt each other's feelings. It's very toxic.”

We both cringed at Hamza’s use of the word “toxic”. Hamza looked down bashfully, perhaps wondering if he’d used the right term in one of his attempts to “connect with Muslim youth”. 

“What I’m saying is that both of you spoke to me after you ugh…stopped seeing each other and what I saw is two people that cared so much that they couldn't manage it. Yes, Abdalla wanted to get to know you in a halal way. Yes, I should have let that happen because I want everyone in this community to go about things the halal way. But I couldn't do that to Abdalla. He deserves better than a girl who’s in love with her ex and the ex in question blowing up his wedding because he waited too long to make a phone call. So, I meddled a bit”

I wasn't sure what to do with myself after Hamza’s slightly rude analysis of Badr and me. Badr, ever the nemesis of social discomfort, decided it was time to leave. 

“Let’s go home” he exasperated. 

I frowned and squeezed his arm. We couldn't just go home. For several reasons! My purse was at the table, so we would have to walk through the ballroom to leave and it would frankly strike up more gossip if we rushed back in there and left than if we were to stay. He had driven his mother! What would he have done? Just left her there? Certainly someone would take her home, but stranding your potential mother in law is no way to begin a relationship for the 5th time. We hadn't yet had dessert! 

“Badr, we can't just ditch. It's rude and I've already caused a commotion. I don't want to do it again.” I explained. 

Hamza nodded with a knowing look in his eyes. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves. Then, we all walked back to the ballroom. Badr was oddly silent as we walked, as though he were deep in thought. I suppose we’d both been given much to think about. As we got closer to the ballroom, I remembered I'd been pinned to a tree and felt up. Suddenly self conscious, I tried to touch up my hair and face. Just a few feet from the door and with me having no clue if my preening was working Badr leaned over and said.

“You're beautiful. Stop obsessing”

Then, surprising me, he took my hand in his, opened the door, allowed me in, and smiled at everyone staring. 

The MC had taken over the stage, but struggled to overshadow the romantic scene unfolding in front of him. I was struggling to cope with it too. Sweat stung my underarms, warning me of my increasing anxiety. I love attention, yes. However, I prefer it…need it to be positive attention. Any other kind of attention might put me in an early grave. Literally everyone was staring at us. If Badr cared or even noticed, he didn't show it. He just kept smiling and walking towards the table my bag was sitting on. I kept following him. I had no choice but to, he was holding my hand rather firmly. 

The MC was talking, he was playing music too, but I barely heard it. I was too embarrassed to hear it. My ears were ringing and my heart was pounding. I thought I was having a heart attack or maybe even the beginnings of a bout of hysteria. 

“Salima?” 

“Hm?”

“I don't want to pick up the wrong purse,” Badr said softly. “Which one is it?” 

I pointed to my little black velvet Vivienne Westwood Granny Frame purse. It looked silly in his large hands. I probably looked silly in his large hands too. Two little flimsy velvet clad frames at his mercy. I thought we were actually going to make it out of the ballroom, but I was wrong. As soon as one of the aunties saw Badr begin to turn away from the table, she pounced.

“Badr! The food tonight was delicious.” 

He paused, and frowned, and debated pretending that he didn't hear her. I knew it wouldn't do us any service to ignore her. She’d just ask again louder and if we didn't answer she would fabricate an absurd story to punish us. So, I squeezed his hand and turned to face her. I stared into her large almond eyes despite being nearly blinded by the glisten of her dark skin illuminated by the chandelier. 

“I agree, Faridah Auntie.” I smiled. 

Badr, now facing her too, smiled and said “I'm so glad you liked it.”

The entire table stared at us. I felt like we were on trial. I once portrayed Brooke Wyndham in Legally Blonde the Musical, a woman on trial for murdering her husband.  So, I figured I could manage. But, just as I was opening my mouth to speak, Badr did something insane and completely out of character. He let my hand go, wrapped his arm around my waist, pulled me to him, and said “I don't know how well you know Salima, but the menu was all her favorites. My shy way of showing her how much I’ve missed her…I've been wanting to speak to her for over a year, I just didn't have the courage.” 

Faridah Aunty looked like she’d just won the lottery. I suppose she had won the lottery in so many ways. She and everyone else at the table now had more information than anyone else at the party. I was certain that Badr made that up to entertain her, but she didn't know that. 

“Oh? The whole menu just for Salima?” She questioned in her thick Senegalese accent. “Why would you need to do that? My daughter would never make you try that hard.” 

The hair on my neck stood up. Her daughter is in love with a Christian Korean guy and hiding it from her. 

“If it makes Salima smile, it's no effort to me.” Badr sneered, annoyed by her thinly veiled attempt to throw her daughter at him. 

I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself while Badr protected me. Was I to just stand there? I wasn't sure. He continued to small talk for us; smiling and redirecting and even humiliating when he had to. He was not so socially capable when last I had really known him. He had wanted to be and he had been watching me, learning my ways. I felt a smidge of pride watching my once timid Badr take on a gang of rowdy community elders. I reveled in that for a moment until out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Faiza’s ratty ombré and 2 shades too light foundation power walking in our direction. She walked right up to our table, looked past me, and stared directly at Badr. I've grown in so many ways since I last knew Badr, but I have yet to outgrow my territorial nature…Unfortunately, I was overtaken by ferality. I was immediately on edge. 

“Badr, there's a problem with the dessert. They need you to go help.” She announced. 

I'd heard from some of the girls in my book club that Faiza can't cook, so I was certain that had no business in the kitchen. Why would she be in there to hear of something Badr was needed for? She wouldn't have been, which made me certain that she was lying. Unfortunately though, Badr responded before I could call her out. 

“Shit! Really?” He exclaimed. 

Everyone at the table in front of us wrinkled their nose at his use of vulgarity. Faiza didn't seem to notice. She was too busy biting her lip and twirling her necklace. 

“Yeah, they said something spilled and they need you right now…I'm happy to help.” 

I could tell that Badr wanted to laugh. He's actually very kind though, so he didn't. He feigned ignorance to Faiza’s poorly thought out attempt to get him away from me. He couldn't get himself to stop smiling though and he couldn't get the corners of his lips to quit twitching. So, he looked down at me and ran his hands through his hair in an effort to look more concerned. I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows. He winked. 

“That sucks, I’ll go check it out.” 

Badr took my hand and turned towards the kitchen, but Faiza was determined. She ran around the table, shoved her way between us, and put her hand on my shoulder. 

“Salima…you can't go in the kitchen in that gorgeous gown! You might get it dirty.” She pretended. 

“She’s not going to get dirty from being inside the kitchen. Excuse us, Faiza.” Badr rebutted for me. 

Faiza had made a scene. Everyone around us was watching again. Badr, didn't seem to care. 

“Faiza says there's a problem with the dessert! She's such a saint. I’ll be back.” He shouted for everyone to hear. 

Surprisingly, there was an issue with the dessert in the kitchen. Someone had left the tubs of ice cream out, melting them. Then, Rogelio, who was in charge of putting the dessert plates together, picked up two industrial tubs of ice cream to begin his assignment. He carried them with the carefulness anyone would have carried two tubs of frozen ice cream with. Which was not as carefully as one would have carried two tubs of melted ice cream. He carried them stacked on top of each other, cradling the bottom of the bottom tub. Then, when he arrived at his prep station, he slid his hands from the bottom to the top of the bottom tub, right under the lip which was unfortunately a bit loose. Since it was a bit loose, Rogelio’s hands popped it looser and the gravity below claimed the tub of melted ice cream. Leaving a sticky white mess all over the kitchen floor and one remaining industrial tub of ice cream soup. Keeping me from a more desirable sticky white mess. Allowing Faiza more time to harass me and Badr. And leaving us all to figure out what to do to salvage the desserts. 

Badr's plan for dessert was impressive. Orange blossom flavored Goat’s milk ice cream sandwiches filled with Somali halwa on a Somali Mashmash bun. He’d gone out of his way to represent as many cultures as possible at the dinner in an upscale way. Knowing this made my insides curdle. It filled my heart with adoration for him. The adoration horrified me. 

“We can just put the halwa in the Mashmas without the ice cream” Faiza shouted out the dumbest idea I'd ever heard. 

I suppose that Badr didn't want to hurt her feelings. So, he took two Meshmesh, placed some halwa between the pieces, and laid it out on a plate for Faiza to see how pathetic it looked. 

“I can't serve that, we got paid a lot to cater this.” He explained. 

Though I hated Faiza's idea, I didn't have anything useful to say, so I said nothing at all. I just looked at the ice cream, the Meshmesh, and the halwa. I looked around at all the appliances and gadgets filling the kitchen. Then, I wondered…Can melted ice cream be whipped? There was a stand mixer…

Afraid to embarrass myself by testing the idea in front of Badr and it failing, I slyly took a small tub, filled it with some of the remaining ice cream, and tiptoed over to the stand mixer. I slowly poured the melted ice cream into the stainless steel bowl of the stand mixer and prayed that this wasn't the dumbest idea I've ever had. Then, I wiggled the whisk attachment onto the head of the mixer and tried to turn it on. It did not turn on for it was unplugged. I was grateful for that because the extra time it gave me left me time to realize that if I turned on the mixer Badr would hear me. I began plotting how to get him out of there long enough for me to see if the ice cream would whip as I searched for a power outlet. Unfortunately, the only outlet I could find was at the table Badr, Faiza, and the kitchen staff were talking in front of. I considered for quite some time different ways to get them all out of there, but that wouldn't have been particularly “grown up” of me. At my big age, was I really going to cause a scene in order for some man not to see me potentially make a mistake? That would be crazy. So, I didn't do anything other than lift up the mixer, plop it down on the countertop, plug it in, and turn it on. Everyone was so stressed that only Faiza noticed me at first. I hardly noticed her though, I was too focused on the texture of the ice cream. Eventually Badr did notice though. 

“Are you trying to whip the ice cream?” He said very loudly and with a lot of surprise in his voice. 

I looked up from the bowl and used all my bravery to reply with a confident “yes”. 

He smiled a brilliant smile and said “You’re so creative! Is it working?”. 

I felt nauseous. I suddenly remembered why I despised him. He is usually so cold and unwelcoming, then suddenly commits these acts of sudden and debilitating praise that tear me to pieces. He speaks these praises with such boyish earnest that I struggle to make myself reprimand him. With no way to defend myself, I just sit there and let it happen. Then, it goes away and I never speak about it. That's how it went on for years. It's not that I struggle with praise, I am actually very accustomed to it. I have been revered by those around me for as long as I can remember. I love to be praised. It's different from him though. It seems unnatural when he does it. It does something to me that I cannot explain. I don't have the words to explain. It just makes me feel nauseous and I hate him for it. I hate that he inspires uncontrollable feelings in me. 

“It seems to be…sort of. It’s getting thicker, but it's not reaching stiff peaks.” I explained to him. 

Badr sifted through a pile of utensils on the table until he found a spoon. Then, he walked over and scraped the side of the stand mixer with it. He stuck his tongue into the ice cream on the spoon. I became jealous of that spoon in a way I never thought I could be jealous of an inanimate object. He held the spoon up closer to his eyes and moved the ice cream from side to side in it. After a while of swirling the ice cream around on the spoon, he then blew on it. I suppose that blowing on it gave him the information he was in search of because he furrowed his thick black brows and said “there's too much sugar in the mixture for air to collect in the pockets and help it form a whipped texture.” 

Faiza had no clue what was going on. She just stood there looking at us with her recessed jaw agape. I didn't respond either. I expected that Badr would have a solution. Since I didn't say anything back, he spoke again and said “we need some sort of emulsifier.” 

It was then that I realized how much I'd missed him too. So many people believe that it's important to find others that think like themselves. I've come to realize that it's actually very easy to find like minded people who think like me. What's actually been difficult is finding people that can think with me. Someone to solve life’s puzzles with. I'd forgotten that Badr had once been that person for me. I probably would have realized the need for an emulsifier after some time, but my mind was trying to settle down after deciding to whip the ice cream. Badr was then able to think with me and with that next step taken care of I was able to begin thinking of a solution. 

“Are there any cans of channa?” I asked

Badr frowned and placed his hand on the back of his neck. “Maybe in the back of my car…” he pondered. He waved Rogelio over, pulled his keys out of his pocket and instructed him to look for the cans in the car. “What are you going to do with them?” Before I could answer, his eyes lit up in realization and he exclaimed “you're going to use the channa water!” 

His excitement scared me a bit. It gave me butterflies in my stomach and I didn't like that. So, I recoiled and said “well, for the purpose of emulsification it's usually called aquafaba, but yes.” 

For some strange reason, that rubbed Badr the wrong way. He looked at me angrily and said “Don’t start this again, Salima. I've given you plenty of time to grow up, keep acting like you did something with it.” 

“Plenty of time to grow up?” Had he gone mental? I was plenty grown up when we knew each other. I've always been plenty grown up! I finished school early, I started a business in my early twenties, I even bought  my own house! Most people in this day and age cannot do that until they're nearly 40 years old. I have always been plenty grown up! What demonic entity has possessed him to fix his lips to speak that way to me? 

“Enough!” Badr frowned. “I see you thinking of something awful to say. Haven't you learned I'm not going to put up with it? Don't test me, Salima.” 

Faiza giggled. She thought that was real funny. Badr didn't think it was funny though, he shot her a look that could have disintegrated her. I imagined him lowering his glasses to shoot laser beams out of his eyes like he was Scott Summers. Cyclops. If you for some odd reason don’t know the first thing about the X-Men. I thought it would be cute if he were like Scott because that would make me Jean Grey. I think myself much like Jean Grey, we’re both so powerful, and absolutely out of control, and we have these outbursts that end in a fiery rage! She's so me. 

“What, Badr?” Faiza whined. “Everyone knows that Salima is spoiled by her father and hard to make a wife out of. It’s just funny to hear you admit that you know.” 

I couldn't believe my ears. I felt like I was in some sort of teen high school drama. 

“Fuck you, Faiza. At least I can cook.” I retorted in that fiery rage I referenced a few moments ago.

Badr looked more upset with Faiza than he did me. He said, “I'm happy to keep Salima spoiled so long as she keeps her outbursts directed away from me.”

Wanting to take advantage of the redirection of his anger, I swallowed my pride, rallied my confidence, and walked up to Badr. I slipped my fingers into his, laid my head on his ample bicep, looked up at him, and gently said “I'm sorry, Badr.”

When his eyes found their way to me, they had a softness in them for a moment. Only for a moment. After that moment, the softness was replaced with realization, realization that I wasn't actually listening to him. I suppose he wouldn't be the object of my affections if he were too stupid to recognize when I am acting. He is the object of my affections because he is astute and clever. He, in that moment, was clever and astute enough to set me straight without commotion. Badr lowered his hands to my love handles, bunched two velvet clad pieces of my skin between his pointer and thumb, then squeezed. Everything in my body fluttered in response. Involuntarily, my face scrunched up and I squeaked just a little bit. Without words he instructed me to behave. He was satisfied with that, I suppose, because his eyes softened and he smirked ever so slightly. 

Faiza resigned a bit after that. I would have resigned after watching Badr subtly discipline me in a slightly sexual way as well. That's an awkward thing to witness if you're not in it. She didn't leave though, she wasn't quite ready to give up on winning Badr’s attention. So, we all stood there quietly for the 3 more minutes it took Rogelio to return with the aquafaba. He returned with two industrial cans of channa. Badr drained the aquafaba from the cans into a steel bowl. He also made certain to ask Rogelio to put the channa in ziplocks and refrigerate them. Badr hates to waste money. Once the aquafaba was ready, all four of us stood in front of the mixer in anticipation. I didn't know how much to use or if it would even work. I felt so nervous. Rogelio looked determined to figure something out since he'd technically dropped the ice cream. Badr looked like a mad scientist, excited and on edge. Faiza looked at Badr’s hand on the nape of my neck jealously. Though nervous, we only had 20 minutes of speeches left before dessert was meant to be served. So, I turned the mixer on to low, grabbed the bowl of aquafaba, and slowly began incorporating it into the melted ice cream. It was honestly heavy for me, the brown was steel and it had quite a bit of liquid in it. Badr quickly noticed and took it from me. We poured about one fourth of the bowl’s contents into the melted ice cream before I stopped him. I turned the motor up to speed 7 and watched it spin. I prayed it would begin to stiffen and by God’s will, it did. The ice cream began to form stiff peaks. I hollered! I wasn't expecting it to work. Badr was elated. He smiled his gorgeous smile and looked at me lovingly. He nestled his hand into the dip in my waist, he stroked the indent with his thumb, then he lowered his gaze. He lowered his gaze not to respect me as God guides him to, but instead to look at my lips. Surely he did not think it wise to kiss me there in the kitchen. Right? Wrong. He tugged on the dip in my waist, prompting me to step forward, then he leaned down to close the foot and a few inches of space between us. 

“Badr” I whispered in protest right before his lips met mine. “Everyone is watching”. 

Badr didn't say anything back. He just wrapped his other hand around my jaw, squeezed the sides of my face, and kissed me. As much as I wanted to fight him off or feign discomfort, I couldn't, it felt way too good to be his again. 

I thought we would leave once the desert came out. That's what we were doing before Faiza told Him about the desert. So, when we didn't go home once the deserts were plated and put out, I was rather confused. I then thought, perhaps, that we would go once we both finished our share of the deserts. We didn't go. I was certain that once the kitchen staff had begun collecting plates, that would be our cue. For some reason, it wasn't. Badr just remained seated. He spoke to me and everyone at our table. He smiled and laughed as normal. As normal. As though we hadn't just made out in the garden after years of openly pretending to despise each other and returned to this party as a pair. As though nothing had changed. So much had changed though…His two grey hairs had multiplied into at least 15, his once slender frame was now muscular, his timid demeanor had been replaced by confidence, and his once bare wrist was now adorned by a Rolex. So much had changed about both of us since we last really knew each other. Yet, his communication was as unclear as ever. Since we last really knew each other, I'd worked very hard on my rage. I was doing my best not to let that hard work fly out the window as we sat there. However, I wanted desperately to leave and discuss what had transpired between us. I felt crazy sitting there in front of everyone, knowing that all of them were preparing to open WhatsApp and spread heinous rumors about Badr and me. Like? How could he sit there and yap and yap and yap to all these people as though there's nothing he and I need to discuss? It was just infuriating! Just when I was about to boil over with frustration, he reached under the table and pinched me! How dare? I furrowed my brow and in response, he pinched harder! I won't make light of domestic abuse by calling his actions that, but it certainly was uncalled for! It would seem that he found it funny. Though he was continuing to nod along to whatever was being said, his mouth was curved upwards just a bit at the corner. He was holding back a laugh. Fucking freak