How To Hate You

chapter 3

"Can we talk?"

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March,
2015

Ikram's phone chimes by the dresser, its screen glistening a portion of the dark room. Nuzzled between her warm blanket, she stretched her legs and stroked her eyes. She stretched out to the phone, the last traces of sleep rapidly dissipating at the thought that it might be a message from Nabeel.

Although they had not crossed paths since the day at the cafe, Nabeel sends her messages every day asking about her day. It was the most beautiful thing any boy had ever done to her and that was evaluated by how pure his intentions were.

And so, Ikram tells him all about her day. About her random cycling around the house, about bruises and burns in the kitchen, about trying out pineapple on pizza(which was horrendous), about the little bird that chirps and chirps at her window every morning.

He listens, and he tells her how delighted he was that she was having a nice day and how sad he was that she wasn't, and she feels her heart swell and her stomach flutter and that smile glues itself to her face.

Really, those were the highlights of her days.

The time on her phone enunciated it was 10:49 am. Ikram usually wakes up about now. She thumped on the notification with less enthusiasm at the sudden realization that it wasn't Nabeel but a strange number.

'Countlessly and wholeheartedly, I apologize on behalf of my mom whose  persistent blow-up is about her lack of grandchildren, and invariably trying to pair her two sons with anyone she can.'

Ikram leaned against the stiff border of the dresser, the flimsy fabric of her pink nightgown clinging to her body. A wide smile played on her lips.  And although this number was absolutely alien to her and even the person behind it, she felt like she had known him. Like they had once gone out on a warm cloudless day and played twenty questions and talked about all the intimate stuff about themselves.

Ikram: What if one of those girls conformed to marry you?

Ikram had no idea why she typed that. It was an entirely off-guard question, especially from a total stranger whose number was thrust into her contact list by a keen mother. But she liked the vibe he gave, his light words and she thought, why not?

'Honestly?' His reply came. 'I would marry a sack of potatoes if it presented itself.'

She smiled even wider as she typed, two thumbs hovering over the keyboard at an unimaginable speed.

Ikram: Weird. I remember your mum describing you as "incredibly picky". She said and I quote, "That hot-head would never let me choose a bride for him."

Ikram: What changed?

She drummed her two-pointers against the edge of the phone waiting for his reply.

Adnan: Let's just say, love humbled me.

Ikram: Bad breakup?

Adnan: Horrible breakup.

Ikram was about to ask more when her phone chimed with the message she had been waiting for all along. An explosion of red hearts and pink hearts and orange hearts clung to Nabeel's contact. She switched the screen with a tap.

Nabeel: Can we talk?

Ikram's heart throbbed. There were so many levels to such austere utterances. She could sense it, hard and zealous behind her head. Yet, she is both delighted and frightened.