My temptations in your eyes, and the cities of your grief...

— Ibrahim el-Kahwaji

☾

"Can I buy you flowers?"

They stop in front of an ice-cream parlor and she turns to look at him at his question. Mikael gestures towards a shop on the opposite side of the road and she follows his direction. Her eyes fall upon brilliant shades of flowers, some arranged in bouquets while some larger stalks lying individually. She looks back at him and he raises an inquisitive eyebrow, awaiting her response.

"You want to buy me flowers?" she asks, a little surprised.

"Yeah?"

"But why?"

He shrugs, biting his lip as he thinks of a response. "Can I not?"

"Not if you say because I'm beautiful." She crosses her arms as she dares him. "Yes if you've another reason. But I'm tired of bland compliments, so don't go there."

He hums. "Compliments are bland when they're not honest, doctor, then no matter how good. But if they're genuine, then even a stutter will sound good to you. You wanna hear it?"

She chuckles, amused. "What? You stuttering a compliment?"

"Miss, um, you're eh... b-beautiful. Very very. I-I mean very m-much." He scratches the back of his head with a sheepish expression. "I'm embarrassing myself, ain't I?"

Banafsha laughs, covering her mouth with both of her hands as she shakes her head at him in disbelief. "Oh my Lord, you're such an actor, Mikael."

He places a hand over his chest. "You humble me, doctor."

She stares at him. The sun is bright today and its rays skate his irises like sunlight over gems and icebergs, reflecting back to enchant her. For some reason, she cannot blink neither tear away her gaze from his. He doesn't attempt to either.

"Everyone is beautiful in their own way, doctor. If I call you beautiful, I may not necessarily mean your physical beauty." He flicks his tongue between his lips and she swallows. "I could mean how you've been so beautifully honest with me, or how you're so beautifully passionate about your dreams. I could mean how beautifully you've been strong despite everything you've been through," he smiles mischievously, "or how you've strangely beautiful obsession with pencils."

She cannot help her grinning, silently searching his face.

"If you let me buy you flowers, I'll tell you why I've wanted to get them for you," he suggests.

She muses, intrigued, before finally agreeing. "Okay, but not roses."

"Because that would be romantic and you already have a husband?" he bugs.

She playfully glares at him. "Partly. But also for an other reason."

"Well then, I get you flowers and tell you why I got them for you. And you tell me your secret of why you didn't want roses. Deal?"

"Fine," she accepts. "Meanwhile, I'll get us ice-creams. Which flavor do you want?"

"Strawberry."

Banafsha gives him a teasing look and Mikael frowns.

"Are you judging me for liking strawberry?"

She chuckles again and motions for him to leave. "No, go now. Hurry."

Mikael quickly jogs away to the flower shop and Banafsha stares after him a lingering minute before entering the ice-cream parlor and buying them ice-creams, strawberry for Mikael and orange for herself. She looks around to find a good spot but all by the window are occupied, so she chooses one secluded in the corner and goes to sit there.

A moment later, Mikael enters the parlor and she waves him over. He makes his way towards her and she notices the sunflowers bouquet in his hands. He comes to sit opposite to her and places the flowers in front of her, grinning like an excited child. Banafsha sucks in her cheeks so as not to grin back like a loon. She picks up the bouquet, bringing it to her nose.

"They're beautiful, Mikael." She smiles. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, doctor." He glances away from her. "Sunflowers remind us of everything happy. Now I got you these for this smile of yours, because it makes me happy to see you happy."

Her heart flips at his words. Or maybe it's going arrhythmic, too fast to be normal. Yet she feels better than normal in his company.

She notices the red tinge of his ears as he busies himself with his ice-cream, avoiding eye contact, probably feeling shy again. Banafsha helps herself from laughing. This man is flirting with her one moment and shy the very next. She cannot understand him; he's unpredictable, having too many shades. And even still, she finds herself invested in him-- it scares her, how he's like an intricate web and like a prey she's getting caught into it. Mikael has his own share of brokenness, all the baggage she rejected in Aurang, yet it attracts her instead of repelling her. Is it karma disciplining her for her deeds?

These days, she wonders, what is it that even differentiates Mikael from Aurang? She manages to think of only a few very insignificant things, those too only the ones she never got to learn about Aurang. But the logical part of her brain cannot shake these similarities between them-- for them to be the same.

What if?

Despite this, she's being irrational like she never has been before, allowing her heart to chase Mikael with the hopes of him being different-- hoping he has no connection to her world. Because Aurang had seen her that night on the rooftop, it was her who hadn't seen him. And if Mikael was Aurang, why would he keep her in oblivion and play with her feelings like this?

No. She once more concludes, explaining to her own self: Mikael is a good man. He's different. He cannot betray her by pretending to be a stranger to her-- he can deceive her into believing in a lie. He's the only man her heart has chosen in all her life-- the only man she has trusted. Karma cannot be so cruel to her.

He's the only man she's falling for.

"Doctor?"

His voice break her reverie and she blinks, looking at him.

"Tell me the secret now, why not roses?"

She hesitates, finding his eyes on her, before gingerly gathering her hair in her hands behind her neck and lifting it up, tilting her head for him to see the long fine scar running down from her right ear to a little above her shoulder.

"When I was a child, I once fell in the roses bushes in our garden while playing with my sister. This is what I got."

His gaze lingers on her neck before she lets her hair down, hiding her scar. Mikael looks back at her.

"So you don't like roses because they've thorns?"

"Is that absurd?"

"No."

She smiles sadly. "I don't like them because of the memory they bring. My mother scolded my sister, Parisha, for being careless, because I was such a baby, when in reality it was me who got offended with Pari about something and tried to push her but missed and fell in the bush instead." She spoons her now melting ice-cream, eyes downcast. "And Parisha took great care of me afterwards, but I was just pissed at both her and the rose bushes. It's the first fight I remember between my sister and I. And to be honest, I never got along well with her, because I thought she has always received everything better than me, having genuine friends and a decent husband, so I channeled my inner dissatisfaction towards her. Yet she has always been there for me, saying she wants the best for me. She's kinder than I, and so she has been more closer to everyone than me, including my brothers. And I was afraid I would never be as lucky as her-- that God will never favor me over her because it was her being the good girl and me being the bad one."

"But who is bad?" Mikael asks, objecting her-- challenging her. "Because I've learnt that people who are not guilty of their wrongdoings but are persistent in repeating them, not repenting to God neither apologizing to people, never trying to revive their conscience until it's dead, they're bad. Now are you bad, doctor?"

She gets his message and her smile turns soft. "I can change, Mikael. Maybe it'll take time, but I can become a better person. You'll be there for me, won't you be?"

He smiles back, holding her eyes affectionately, sincerely, and nods. "As long as you want me to be, even if forever, doctor."

☾

"Can you make me tea, please? I'm not feeling well."

She looks up from her laptop screen to Zoraiz who's standing by the balcony doors with a prayer mat in his hands. He spread it on the floor and stands on it to pray. Banafsha straightens up in concern.

"Why ain't you well?"

"Mild headache. I think it's just exhaustion from my trip to Galway."

"Or maybe you've caught a cold from walking around shirtless after showering. I told you the weather isn't favorable for your recklessness," she scolds.

"I'm not sick, Afsha. I'll be good once I get my tea and sleep. So, tea please?"

She rolls her eyes and puts the laptop down her lap on the couch, standing up. "You should rest. I'm having duty tonight. Can't leave you alone if you get sick."

"After my prayers." He waves aside her worry. "Also, I've to show you these photographs I took, if you're interested, of course."

Her heart aches at the hope in his voice, and she regrets ever belittling him for his passion. She, of all, should have understood him when she herself has fought everyone for her dreams.

Banafsha smiles at him. "I'd love to."

He beams at her response. "Great! That place was beautiful, sis. Some day you gotta come with me and see the world."

"If life permits. Now finish your prayers. You look so pale and weak I feel like you're gonna collapse there."

He laughs her off. "Hey, just because I haven't been working out doesn't mean you mock me for it. I'm still fit enough."

"Oh, burning hot, I know." She scoffs funnily and he winks at her.

"Now you admit."

Banafsha goes to the kitchen to make tea as Zoraiz starts praying. She puts the kettle on the stove and sits on the counter stool, watching him-- his every movement from standing to bowing to prostration. It has been long since she has prayed herself. She still remembers most of the recitation in the prayers, but she has forgotten their order. Nonetheless, the occasional times she would pray, she didn't understand the Arabic she was taught to recite and thus it never had any significant effect on her. She has heard of people connecting to God via praying and what not, but how they do so is beyond her comprehension.

She recalls Mikael's first lecture she had attended, and the importance of praying he had highlighted. But how can a heart be forced? Her heart has never felt anything such. Or maybe she has never really put any serious effort into her prayers. Maybe that's why she has never reached that level of spirituality to develop a connection with her Lord.

She finishes making the tea and takes it to the living room, putting the tray on the table. Zoraiz is done praying and he comes to sit beside her on the couch, leaning back tiredly as he rubs his eyes. Banafsha pours them both tea and he thanks her.

"Zoraiz?"

He hums without looking at her.

"How does it feels to pray?"

Now he turns to her, bewildered, and tilts his head. "Well, it feels good to me. But in what context are you asking?"

"I've never felt anything while praying," she confesses. "I don't understand it."

"It's not difficult to understand." He shrugs. "And why do we pray anyway, Afsha?"

"Because it's obligatory," she states as an obviously.

"And we still manage to cheat obligations, don't we? If we pray with the mindset of obligation only." Zoraiz sits straighter and picks up his tea cup, looking at her seriously. "But if we pray to build our relationship with God, then a relationship with Him cannot be cheated. It only strengthens with each prayer, because each prayer takes us closer to Him. That's what feels good, Afsha."

She ponders over his reply, deep in thought, before asking again, "Do you think I can be a spiritual person?"

He takes a sip of his tea before responding, "Anyone who wants to be, can be. When you run to your Lord, He never denies you."

She smiles, feeling satisfied for some reason hearing his answer. "So, where do I start?"

He pat his chest, over his heart. "Here. This is where you start searching for Him. Qalb (heart). This is where you Find Him if you're devoted."

Banafsha studies her brother for a long moment. He takes another sip of his tea, waiting for her to say something back. When she doesn't, he lightly snaps his fingers in front of her.

"What are you thinking?" Zoraiz asks.

"You're a complicated guy, zaar. Sometimes your concepts irritate me, we disagree and fight over certain things, and I hate you for a lot of your habits. But then you say things like these I cannot help loving you."

Zoraiz chuckles as he places his cup down and scoots closer to her. "When you love people, Afsha, you don't love them half-- you love them whole."

"How can anyone be loved wholly when everyone is flawed?" she argues. "I think we're always loving people half, or a little more or a little less than that, but never whole."

"Loving someone doesn't necessarily mean appreciating their flaws. It means choosing to love them despite their flaws. Because love is sacred-- it cannot be fractionalized. Can you part your heart and claim to love someone with only half of it?"

She's dumbfounded, unable to respond to him, gawking at him. Zoraiz pats her cheek and picks up his laptop from the side table, turning it on.

"Lemme show you my shots." The screen lights up and he turns away from her, coughing, before referring back to Banafsha. "I'm planning on going to county Clare next weekend. Do you think you can join me?"

"I'll have to check my schedule."

"Alright. I'll make arrangements if--"

He breaks into a fit of coughs and Banafsha quickly reaches out to rub his back, alarmed.

"Are you okay?"

He takes a minute to recover and nods at her. "I'm allergic to dust. The apartment needs cleaning," he complains.

Banafsha slumps back on the couch. "Well, with you out on your trips and me on duty, who's gonna do that? That's why I told you to hire a maid. The money lala sent me--"

"No," he refuses before she could finish and Banafsha groans.

"Fine. Just hire someone. I'll pay."

"I can afford on my own. But there's someone who needs the money more than my apartment."

"What do you mean?"

He just shakes his head. "Never mind." Zoraiz squints his eyes as he studies something on his laptop. "There's an email from Mughis lala."

Banafsha hurriedly scrambles over to the screen to read it. "He's coming over next weak?" she utters in shock.

"Looks like our getaway to Clare has to wait."

"No no no." Banafsha frantically shakes Zoraiz's arm, urging him to refuse Mughis. "Tell lala not to come. Excuse to him that we both have to go out of the city for work. I'll come to Clare with you."

Zoraiz frowns, lost and confused. "But what's wrong, Afsha?"

"Mughis lala is coming to arrange my wedding with Aurang and settle the affairs."

"So?"

Banafsha takes a shuddering breath, trying to calm her heart, looking Zoraiz in the eyes. "You asked me to consider giving Aurang a chance."

Zoraiz falls silent, his features darkening as he waits for her to say more.

"I've thought about it," Banafsha tells him. "And I don't want to be in this relationship. I want divorce."

☾

Leave me your thoughts and love and I'll try to give you an update soon (:

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