Unedited.
Istanbul, Türkiye.
December, 2018.
•AMNA.
It's a Thursday, which is the day I meet Professor Aydin, my academic supervisor. However, I got an email from him yesterday notifying me that he would be attending a conference today and had rescheduled our meeting. So, after the Fajr prayer, I didn't set another alarm and just decided to sleep in.
I opened my eyes and turned left to look at my digital bedside alarm clock. It said 11:37 a.m. I stayed quietly in bed under the covers, scrolling through my phone and catching up on emails and social media until noon. Finally, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and then tidied up my bed, smoothing out the creases in the sheets.
For breakfast, I made a quick meal before doing some laundry. After sorting through the clothes, I moved on to cleaning Khalthum's room. She's returning tomorrow after spending nearly a month in Nigeria for her sister Hafsah's wedding. I wanted to make sure her space was neat and clean for her return.
With Khalthum's room squeaky clean, I decided to pamper my hair, which had been somewhat neglected lately. I applied a revitalizing hair mask to bring my curls back to life. While the mask worked its magic, I deep-cleaned the entire apartment, focusing on every corner to ensure it was spotless, then ran a warm bath, scrubbing my skin with lavender bath salts.
After my bath, I dressed in cozy matching sweats and prepared a simple lunch of rice with chicken. Opting for a quiet day indoors, I dragged my heavy duvet from my bedroom to the living room couch and settled in. I started catching up on the episodes of MasterChef Australia. I was about halfway through the third episode when the doorbell rang.
Puzzled, I wondered if I had ordered something I'd forgotten about. Who could it be? I peeped through the hole and saw a delivery man in uniform standing outside, holding a large bouquet of white roses. I frowned in confusion but quickly opened the door, offering the man a polite smile.
"İyi günler—good day," I greeted, and the man responded with a warm smile, saying, "Good afternoon, Miss Amna?"
Surprised that he spoke English, I nodded and accepted the bouquet. "Are you sure it's not the wrong address?" I asked, examining the flowers. I realized how silly I must have sounded since he had already addressed me by name.
"No, Ma'am," he replied, handing me a delivery slip to sign.
I smiled, signed the slip, thanked him, and closed the door.
With the bouquet in hand, I turned it around, trying to guess who might have sent it. I pulled out the small card attached and opened it, reading the message: "Hi Beautiful!" followed by "AS."
I gasped. Aslam Shettima?
I counted the white roses and took a mirror selfie holding the large bouquet. I sent the photo to Aslam and also posted it on my private story.
After detaching the card, I placed it on the coffee table. I then filled three flower vases with water—one for the dining table, one for my bedside table, and the last for Khalthum's bedside table. I added some flower food to the water, trimmed the stems, and arranged the roses in the vases.
***
After settling back on the couch, I found myself dialling Aslam's number.
"What do I owe to this call this afternoon?" he said as soon as he answered, in a formal tone.
