The low sun was still intense and its heat burned into the navy fabric that covered my shoulders. “Maybe I should leave you alone for a while,” I said carefully. Vahid sighed, squatting along the wall, resting the weight of his body on his crossed ankles.
“No, come and sit beside me,” he said finally. “Don’t leave.” I crossed the narrow passage and crouched next to him. He took my hand and held it to his chest. “I can’t breathe and my heart is pounding. What is happening to me?” he asked. His voice was low and fragile.
I felt the strangeness of my own chivalry. I wanted to touch his face and put a hand to his cheek. In spite of the abundant, dormant calm that I’d accrued in my twenties, piled up instincts of hesitation and reluctance, I reached into my reserves of empathy and kindheartedness, feeling a small twitch of sadness at how long they had gone undisturbed.
“Its ok,” I said quietly, reaching to stroke his hair. “No!” he lashed out. “You are mediocre. You aren’t ugly but you aren’t beautiful. Other than your hair you have no nice features. I don’t like you!”
I stood up sharply and felt my cheeks flush with crimson. The quiet alleyway had become narrow and suffocating , the place where we had kissed only moments ago felt even more imperfect. I had no idea where I was but I couldn’t stay any longer. “You need to be left alone.” I said angrily.
“Don’t leave me,” he said. “Please come back. Come back and sit with me.” “No,” I said firmly, leaning against the wall opposite. “You come, you come to me.” He stood up and looked at me puzzled. ‘Jenny, I’m sorry. Please come and be close to me.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t stubbornness or childishness that made me refuse. It was something more. Those few steps of crossing the path would tell me everything.
I watched as he walked slowly towards me. He took my hand and kissed it. “Come,” he said. “My mom is waiting for us. It will be time for dinner soon.”
As we resumed our late-evening ritual of walking through the backstreets of the city, the evening azoon or call to prayer began. Even without music, it was haunting, almost operatic. From our position in the city we were closest to the minaret where it always begins, the one solitary voice that pierces the night air. Another voice added its strength and then another until the city filled with overlapping sound. We listened as we walked. The sun had set and a few stars appeared in the sky.
“Jenny?” Vahid asked looking down. “Yes?” I murmured, still listening as the last notes of the azoon faded away. “What do you think of me?” he asked.
We reached a brightly lit street and as I thought about his question, I saw a green and white police car. It was driving along the opposite side toward where we were standing and I had the sudden feeling that I should look down and turn my face away, yet somehow I couldn’t. I continued to watch the car as it drove past and my stomach clenched as I saw it slam on the brakes, do an abrupt u-turn and pull up forcibly onto the sidewalk just in front of us.
