The Flying Dreams

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 When I reached Shifa's flat, the silence welcomed me, and I wondered in confusion. Didn't she say she would be having a few friends in here? I didn't even see her. Well, I thought, that gives me time to prepare something to eat. Not wasting my time in changing clothes or putting oil in my hair, I went straight to the kitchen after washing my hands and face. Something easy and less time-consuming— rice. Ever since I started cooking, Shifa religiously shopped for grocery and now her kitchen drawer contained more than instant noodles and junk food, though I had tried to persuade her to stop eating those unhealthy potato chips and whatnot, she was hellbent on ignoring my pleas. She either placed her palms over her ears as a toddler might do or shamelessly grinned at me. Talk about childish. I almost couldn't believe I had judged her and thought her intimidating—she was simply the most harmless and childish grown-up I had met.

I checked the fridge for some vegetables and eggs to spice up my rice when Shifa practically shouted my name and in sudden surprise, my grip on the palate of eggs loosened and in a blink of an eye, the eggs lay shattered on the floor. All I wanted was to eat and go hide inside my room before Shifa and her friends made it there but as I stared at all the mess waiting to be cleaned, tears of misfortune started to blur my vision. That must be Allah's way of letting me know that he had seen my mind filled with Shifa's face instead of Wahab while a song of blooming love played in the background.

"Adia? Are you crying?"

Of course, I had not forgotten about the main culprit of all the mess. Some would call me vindictive, I wouldn't. I wiped my eyes and turned to her, placing my hands on my hips to help me scold her. My mother did that and it always worked somehow, we just knew if her hands are on her hips, the trouble is somewhere near. Too near for my liking. But when my eyes fell on her, I couldn't bring myself to even utter a single word, let out a whole tirade of abuse. Her eyes were squinted in an apologetic manner, and I saw her glance quickly darting between me and the floor. She was dressed in a lavender sweater two sizes bigger on her and tight black jeans, the hoop earrings never missing. She just made the simplest piece of clothing extraordinary, and I didn't know if I should be envious of it or impressed by it.

"Don't cry. I'll-," in a panicked mode, she looked around her and at last found a rag by the kitchen counter, her legs crossed the distance from the door to where I stood in a mere second, basically showing off her long legs, "- I'll clean it. I'm sorry."

She extended her hand toward me, and I hadn't noticed the white polyethene in her before, well, because I was too busy staring at her face. I waited for her words; my relayed action made Shifa turn her face to look at me with a questioning frown on her brows. I took the offered polyethene and without a single utterance, opened the knot only to find a matching fabric of the colour of Shifa's sweater—just slightly lighter. I pulled out the garment and a light chuckle betrayed my supposedly foul mood.

"You bought a hijab?"

Shifa didn't look up and only stood after cleaning the floor, as she went to wash her hands in the basin, I noticed her lips tilting in a small smile, "For you. I liked the colour."

If I had judged her personality right, then, I thought she would be even shyer to accept a single word of thanks. Instead, I laughed and without a wait, tried on the new gift. Leaving Shifa behind the kitchen counter, stood in front of the body mirror and examined the fit, neatly tucking in every stray hair inside the edge. I saw Shifa's reflection behind me and I gave her my most genuine grin. In my twenty-two years of life, none but my mother had ever bought me a gift. Zoya had, of course, on my birthday but she usually just gave me something to eat. And that was all. I could easily say, Shifa was the first person to give me a gift and it was foolish of me to get all emotional over it, but my heart seldom listened to my commands.

"Okay, now we match."

What came out of her mouth wasn't exactly expected, "I always hated wearing that thing. Don't you?"

Her eyes never left my face in the mirror, and I hoped mine would linger too, but obviously, that was too much to ask of a mind who stayed in a constant fright of wanting too much. It was me, who looked away first but only for a second, to catch my breath and give my heart, which was threatening to explode—a break. When I glanced back at the mirror, the fact that she hadn't moved a bit and her eyes met mine at the exact moment I raised my lashes didn't surprise me. She had a habit of making people, or more specifically me, uncomfortable with her intense and constant staring.

"No. Yes, I mean—sometimes. But not often."

"Good for you then."

Then, she inhaled as if that two-minute talk had drained her energy; exhauster her to the bone and placed the fallen smile on her face again. I almost wished she hadn't. She never failed to intrigue me, and I wanted to know more. She wore the hijab and hated it—I hadn't lied to her. I think everyone would be irritated if they had to wear it all the time, even at home but I never hated it. I watched her ready to walk away and couldn't stop my lips from parting, "Why did you?"

She didn't need an explanation, "Why don't you?"

Before I could reply, the doorbell rang not once but thrice and Shifa still didn't make a move to open the door and let her friends in. She must be waiting for me to lock myself inside the room first. I almost jogged to pick up the plate of rice—without eggs or vegetables—and back to the door of my room.

"Where are you going?"

The doorbell echoed again, but Shifa seemed to be turning deaf to the loud, annoying ring. I raised my plate in the air, thinking no words would be needed but she only tilted her head, "What?"

"In your spare room, where else could I possibly go, Shifa?"

I had no intention to be harsh, but her fake confusion irritated me and bullied my tongue to make the remark but the expression that grazed her strikingly gorgeous face almost compelled me to apologize. And I nearly did but I watched her face hardened, and slowly, painstakingly slowly she nodded her head and at last, went to open her door. For a second, I couldn't move and only did the sudden loudness in her flat made me step inside the room. What is with her? She always gave me the impression that having me meet her friends would be the most dreadful thing to happen in her life and now she gave me that cold look for doing exactly what she wanted? If anything, she should be saying thanks to me for not making her say the hurtful words out loud—I do not want them to know, so please while they are here, don't come out.

Despite knowing she didn't want me mingling with her crowd, the look she gave me hurt and as I leaned against the closed wooden door, listened as the noise grew, heard my own heartbeat in my ear, beating rapidly fast as if someone had let out a pack of dogs after me, I couldn't help but caress the lavender-coloured hijab with my left hand and stare at the plate of plain rice in my right with a heavy burden of bubbling emotions.

I was busy thinking but the ringtone of my phone snapped me right out of it and seeing Wahab's face on screen dragged me by the hair and threw me on the cold ground. What was I thinking? I knew what I had been conjuring up in my head for days now, was wrong. It was so wrong, and I was only catching up with the actuality of it only when my reality faced me. Wahab. He was my certainty, my truth. This time, my heart raced for a whole different reason, and I accepted Wahab's video call. His face made me feel sick, disgusted by myself and it took me great strength to smile.

"How is my lovely fiancée doing?"

Not good.

"Amazing, how about you?"

Wahab's background was his bed with a wooden frame and a collage of his photos hung above it. One day, I would share his room and his bed. The thought had only excited me before and now it just frightened me, but I forced my thoughts in the opposite way. Wahab helped me forget the sin I was on the verge of committing. Thinking of someone else instead of my fiancé, and on top of that—a girl. And not just any girl, Wahab's cousin. Surely, judges of Allah had already written my name on the list of sinners.

I couldn't touch the rice and after Wahab ended the call, claiming his cousin was calling him, I wept on my pillow and thanked the universe for the loud noise of music to suppress the sound of my pitiful sobbing.