At His Mercy

Part 28 Adam

Just looking at her standing there takes my breath away. I'm not sure if she's even real.. . . she is stunning in white, like an angel.  This is how we should have gotten married.  in this beautiful place, with these beautiful clothes on. . .she is stunning, sparkling under these lights. When she smiles over at me, the room actually lights up!  so statuesque and beautiful.. it makes me ache looking at her standing there in her lenga.   How many weddings did I go to in those long, lonely  5 years and think solemnly of my own wedding ceremony?

How may times did I did stand there with my mother and sister, but was really absent.  cutting off those feelings of agony as the memory of her smile burned out like a candle in a  cavern of darkness.  how many times did the music and laughter of the wedding reception fade into the periphery of my thoughts- as I helplessly fell into those moments that completed me so fully yet hurt so much as they reminded me of how incomplete I now felt. how many time did those residual moments of joy catch me by surprise and hit me like a punch to the solar plexus?

Our shoes sitting beside each other, next to the door to my apartment.  her sitting on the edge of the bath in a towel, hair still wet. legs that went on forever.  I swear to god, I never saw anything so beautiful.How many times did her name echo inside the empty corridors on my mind?

Those god damn weddings that bought it all back. The look of nervousness, the exciting undercurrents, the moments of relief all playing out in front of my eyes. How many times did I warmly congratulate the groom and fathers wishing them well, sincerely hoping they would do a better job than I did.  The glitz and glamour fading from my mind as I remembered that girl in her jeans and sweatshirt sitting beside me on the floor, in front of the imaam in Victoria mosque. With trembling hands, signing the register.  Excitement and fear mingled in the air, a heady cocktail. The sparkle in her eyes as she smiled nervously at me.

How many times did i revisit that memory of us together, in those first moments. Knowing she was trusting me, taking a leap of faith in me.  

5 years ago. . .

God, it had filled me with such determination and a sense of pride I had never felt before. Not once did I think of my family, the future or anything that could have broken that fragile moment of bliss.  taking a deep breath and waiting for her to say those words 'Kabool hai' (I agree), in that whisper.I try not to look at her, focus my attention on the imaam- out of respect. He looks serious, no hint of disapproval or smile, which I expected. But my heart is beating a tattoo in my chest so loud Im not listening to the imaam but thinking about her words.  she actually agreed to marry me.  I sneak a look at her, she's wringing her hands together,  as anxious as me.  It's oddly reassuring.

Present day

'OK?' she says in a low voice noticing my thoughts are elsewhere. We take our seats at the table as the photographers do their thing,  capturing these special moments for the couple. Did we even take any photo's together? ever?

I lean over to whisper in her ear 'You look lovely!'

she tilts her head away from me to get a better a look at me, she frowns at me mockingly 'Is that a compliment?' and then grins at me ' thank your mum, she picked this outfit for me'  she turns her attention back to the stage where the bride and are groom are sat. 

'No, its you!' I whisper. I look at her side profile.  a rose blush stains her cheek. 'its not the dress, its you.'  The groom and bride are seated like two dolls, there is a polite tension between them as she adjusts her skirt around her, he moves away to give her space to get herself comfortable.  the nervous tension plays out in front of us. But then she turns to look at him and gives the groom a warm appreciative smile, he relaxes immediately.   Then a moment a later , I lean over to her and whisper 'it should have been like this. . . '

she doesn't look at me, but looks down at her hands and then back up to the stage.  I see her swallow. 'maybe. . .' she whispers so quietly, I barely hear her. she may be looking at the stage but her thoughts are lost in the past like my own. 

5 years ago. . .

It's raining when we step out of the mosque. I take her warm hand in my own and she turns to face me. I pull her closer till she is inches away from me, placing my hands round her waist tugging her jacket, to draw her in.  I can see the steam of her breath, smell the coconut of her shampoo.  she looks up at me, her eyes uncertain. I want to kiss those lips so badly, instead I place my forehead on hers.  Our breath mingles and I say 'I'm never letting you go, ever.' 

famous last words. . . .