بسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ
In The Name Of Allah, The Most Beneficent, The Most Merciful
⊱ ⋆ ⊰
The ointment feels cold on her warm hand. She rubs her palms together, then gently dabs them on her pink sun-rashed cheeks while looking at her reflection in a full-length mirror.
The thunder strikes and rain droplets fall over the headquarters building of Seiga Incorporation.
"Why are you a bullhead?
Wafa looks at him from the mirror. "Why are you a bullhead?" She inquires rhetorically.
Alan sitting on the couch, throws his head back in despair. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he marches to her in long strides. "Look, I feel bad. I feel as if I am the reason for your suffering." He confesses, reclining to the wall, maintaining a respectable distance between them. Crossing his hand over his chest, he says, "So, at least let me redeem myself from the guilt gnawing in me."
"Alan," Wafa takes more of the ointment. Spreading it on her palms, she dabs it on her cheeks again. "That was not your fault. And even if it was, I forgave you, for nurturing grudges is never my thing."
"Just come to my villa for the party this Saturday night." The auburn-haired man pleads.
The girl turns to him. "You are much aware I don't do these things."
"And there will be no such things like that," He tells her. "We're just going to do barbeque there with some friends. It's time you get yourself out of your bubble and get a life, Waffle."
Wafa goes to sit on the bodacious white couches surrounding a beautiful veined marble coffee table but halts as his last sentence graces her ears.
She turns around to him, "Alan, I am pleased living in my own bubble, and I have a life. But I don't want that in my life." She takes a seat, picking up a magazine, which the cerulean-eyed man was reading a few moments ago, with a cover photo of all of them posing together wearing vintage clothes.
"I am not inviting you to a nightclub party, Wafa." He deadpans.
"Oh," She touches her chin with her index finger in contemplation, "You said it will be a barbecue party. Another reason for me not to come." She gives a foxy smile, her teeth on display. And though her canines are sharp-looking, they still add beauty to her smile.
"I'll get you halal beef if that's what you want." He growls.
(denoting or relating to meat prepared as prescribed by Muslim law.)
Hearing this non-native word from his mouth rings weirdly in her ears that the woodsy-eyed can not help but giggle at his futile determination, adding fuel to Alan's fire. Thus, he lets out a series of colorful butterflies from his mouth.
"Good Morning, pals." Micheal, the band's drummer, enters the studio lounging area with a grin. He stops by the couches and leans. His hand grasps the channel back, his other hand secured in his jeans pocket, and his legs crossed.
Behind him stands Richard, the guitarist of the group. "Hey, Wafa," He says, eyes shying away from her.
And when the auburn-haired man observes his countenance, he raises his eyebrow at the guitarist, his eyes possessing an invisible flame as Richard only greeted Wafa and not Alan with the same blushed cheeks.
"Salam, guys." The brown-haired girl responds while turning the pages of the magazine.
(peace)
They take a seat, and the boys begin to converse with each other, leaving Wafa alone, accompanied by her thoughts. And even though physically she appears to be healing, mentally-- she feels absolutely wrecked.
YOU ARE READING
The Artist And The Atheist
Spirituelles❝ I Had Closed off all avenues to Your grace, But then, I found myself at her doorstep, seeking solace and pace. And what an astonishment that You made her to heal and renew Me, So with gentle care, she led me back to You. ❞ -extended summary inside-
