The Killer's Kiss

11. Hasna's dilema

Hasna focused intently on the pottery wheel, her hands gliding over the wet clay. She had always been fascinated by the art of pottery and was eager to learn from her aunt, who was a skilled potter. Despite her enthusiasm, her attempts were less than perfect—bits of clay flew in all directions, and the jar she was shaping had quickly become misshapen. But despite the mess, Hasna was having a great time. She loved the sensation of the clay between her fingers and the soothing hum of the spinning wheel. So absorbed was she in her work that she didn't even notice when Hamza entered the room and quietly moved behind her.

Hamza stood silently, watching her with a soft smile, admiring the determination etched on her face. The joy she radiated was infectious, and finally, he couldn't resist any longer. He moved closer, sitting behind her on the stool, and gently placed his hands over hers. With a tender touch, he guided her movements, helping her shape the clay.

Hasna froze, suddenly aware of his presence. The warmth of his hands on hers sent a shiver down her spine, making her both nervous and comforted at the same time. She felt shy, unsure of what to say, but couldn't deny the comfort she felt in his touch.

They continued working at the pottery wheel, their hands covered in clay as they tried to mold the stubborn jar. Despite their best efforts, the clay resisted, forming something closer to a lopsided dog bowl than a jar.

"Why is it not taking any shape?" Hasna asked, pouting in frustration.

Hamza chuckled softly. "Because you're bad at pottery," he teased, his voice light with affection.

Hasna rolled her eyes but tried again, though her patience was wearing thin. "You do it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can't."

Hamza looked at the misshapen clay and then back at Hasna. "Well, I can't make it either," he admitted, wiping the clay from his hands.

Hasna frowned. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. "I don't really know much about pottery either," he confessed.

Hasna stared at him in disbelief. "Then what were you doing?"

"I was just trying to help," Hamza said with a laugh. "Besides, it's not about making the perfect jar; it's about having fun and enjoying the process."

A smile spread across Hasna's face, warmth flooding her heart. Without thinking, she leaned over and hugged him tightly, grateful for his love and support. Together, they laughed and continued playing with the clay, creating whatever shapes came to mind. It didn't matter if their jars were wonky or looked like broken dog bowls, as long as they were together, having fun.

Hasna's surprise quickly turned into laughter. "You really are a gem, Hamza!" she exclaimed, mimicking his earlier words with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Just helping," she added with a playful chuckle.

They continued laughing, their shared joy filling the room.

Later, Hasna sat on the porch with her khala, the warm sun casting a golden glow over them. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, though a few rebellious strands had escaped and danced in the breeze. She tried to tuck them behind her ears, but eventually gave up, focusing instead on mixing the spices with the raw mangoes. The tangy aroma of the mangoes mingled with the pungent scent of the spices, making her mouth water in anticipation. Unable to resist, she grabbed a piece and bit into it without hesitation. The sourness hit her like a jolt, making her eyes squeeze shut as she winced. But then she laughed, amused by her own impulsiveness.

Meanwhile, Hamza was inside, engaged in a video conference with his business partners. They were discussing important details about an upcoming project, but Hamza's mind kept drifting to the window where Hasna sat.

"Sir, we should consider increasing our capital. If we do that, we can still reach our goals. Sir, are you listening?" one of his partners asked, noticing Hamza's distracted state.

"Huh? Yes, yes, of course," Hamza replied, trying to refocus on the call.

But his eyes wandered back to Hasna. Without thinking, he murmured, "She looks so cute with her hair all messy like that."

His partners exchanged confused glances, unsure how this was relevant to their conversation.

Realizing his mistake, Hamza quickly corrected himself, "Sorry, I got distracted for a moment."

The discussion resumed, but Hamza's mind kept wandering back to Hasna. He watched her take another bite of the sour mango, her expression twisting in reaction.

"Oh no, it's sour," he murmured, almost tasting it himself.

His partners glanced at each other again, puzzled by Hamza's fixation on the sourness.

As the call finally ended, Hamza's attention was fully on Hasna. He walked out to the porch, leaning against the railing as he watched her. Hasna looked up from her pickle-making and smiled warmly at him.

Unable to resist, Hamza moved closer, sitting beside her. With a gentle touch, he tucked the unruly strands of hair behind her ear, causing a soft blush to rise on her cheeks.

"Thanks," Hasna breathed, grateful for the small gesture. "These were driving me crazy."

Hamza smiled, content just watching her. There was a strange kind of peace that washed over him whenever he looked at her. As he sat there, a verse from the Quran came to his mind:

"And those who say, 'Our Lord, grant us from among our wives and offspring comfort to our eyes and make us an example for the righteous.'"

Hamza's heart swelled with gratitude to the Almighty.

"Ya Allah, indeed, You are the Most Merciful," he thought silently. "All praises belong to You. I am Your sinful servant, burdened by my faults, yet You showed me mercy. You hid my flaws and granted me the coolness of my eyes in Hasna. I am truly grateful to You, my Lord."

His eyes became watery with emotion.

Hasna noticed and immediately became concerned. "Why are you crying? What happened?" she asked, worry etched in her voice.

"Nothing," Hamza replied, avoiding her gaze. "Something just got in my eyes."

"Really?" Hasna asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

"Yes," he insisted, though he couldn't meet her eyes.

Hasna wasn't convinced. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine," she said, returning to her work. "But don't lie. Lying is a sin."

Hamza couldn't help but smile at her words. "Look who's talking!" he teased.

Hasna heard him but chose to ignore it, her focus back on the task at hand.

The atmosphere shifted abruptly when Hamza's phone rang. The cheerful mood was shattered by the familiar ringtone that seemed to fill the space with tension. Hamza's expression darkened, his features hardening into a mask of seriousness, like a cold mountain of ice or a volcano simmering beneath the surface, ready to erupt.

Hasna looked at Hamza and immediately regretted it. His intense gaze sent a shiver down her spine. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but found herself unable to speak. Hamza took a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. His expression softened as he noticed her anxiety. He silenced the call and, for a moment, just stared at her.

Hasna felt a pang of guilt, sensing that his worry was somehow connected to her. Even though she wanted to question him, she couldn't bring herself to do it. She lowered her gaze but looked up when Hamza suddenly reached for her hands and held them in his.

"You have to tell the truth, Hasna. It's time," he said, his voice low and serious.