HALF HER DEEN

25. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒍𝒔?

"You want pickels?"

Hassan asked, his skeptical expression mirrored through the screen of our FaceTime call, I couldn't help but chuckle at his incredulous reaction. "Yes, pickles," I reiterated, trying to stifle my laughter at the bewildered look on his face.

"Pickles?" he repeated, as if the word itself held some hidden, mysterious meaning.

I rolled my eyes playfully, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. "Yes, pickles. You know, those crunchy, briny delights that come in a jar?"

Hassan let out a bemused huff, shaking his head in disbelief. "Alright, alright. Pickles it is. Anything else, Your Majesty?" he teased, adding a mock bow for good measure.

I couldn't help but laugh at his antics. "No, no, just the pickles, thank you," I replied with exaggerated solemnity, playing along.

I woke up this morning feeling a bit off, like I had eaten too much spice the night before. I brushed it off, thinking it was just a passing thing.
But as the day went by, that queasiness lingered, and I found myself craving strange foods—pickles, of all things, which I never really liked before.

So I raided our kitchen cabinets for a fix, then realized that we never had pickles here because none of us ate it. Well that was about to change. Feeling determined to satisfy this sudden craving, but feeling too lazy to leave the house, I face-timed hassan in hopes that he could buy me some. But hassan was weirded out by this more than I was.

"Okay, I'll pick you up some pickles on the way, babe," Hassan affirmed with a chuckle, his voice echoing through the phone as I watched him sift through files on his desk.

"Thank you," I said gratefully, a warm feeling spreading through me at his thoughtfulness.

He was always so sweet and caring, a constant source of support and love in my life. I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with emotion at the mere thought of him.

As I watched him through the screen, a sudden wave of emotion washed over me, catching me off guard. What was happening to me? I could feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Hassan noticed my sudden change in demeanor, his brows furrowing in concern. "Baby, do you need me to come home? Is pickle a code word for something?" he asked, his voice laced with worry as he leaned closer to the camera.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm just feeling weird today," I assured him quickly, trying to compose myself before he could see the tears welling up in my eyes.

"Okay, well—" he began, but his words were cut off by the sound of someone entering his office, their voice muffled as they spoke to him about a meeting and a contract.

After the person had left, Hassan looked back at the phone apologetically, his expression softening with concern. "Baby, I gotta go. I have a contract meeting with some potential clients in less than five minutes, but I promise to get you some pickles, okay?" he said gently, his eyes filled with regret at having to end our conversation so abruptly.

I nodded with a watery smile, my heart swelling with love for him. "I love you," I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you, fi aminallah," he replied, the familiar phrase offering a sense of comfort and reassurance.

"Fi aminallah," I echoed softly as the call ended.

I glanced at the screen of my phone, noting with a start that it would be time for Asr prayer in less than thirty minutes. I decided to take a quick shower and prepare myself for Salah.