Heat of Entice — Part Two: And I’ll Begin

I guess you thought it ended there, and for a minute I was going to leave you hanging - let your minds run wild with thoughts of what could be, what was and what wasn’t. But our story is far from over as the Lord of the Worlds is Who determines that.

I can still recall his expression, and from the moment Saleem disappeared from sight I continually hit my forehead as I listed the you should haves. ‘You should have pulled over’, ‘You should have at least waved’, ‘You should have texted him’. I hate those moments - those when recalled, you know you would never have done. A concoction of excitement and anxiety with a dash of nervousness was the mixture in my throat at the time, and staring was all that I could muster.

I thought he’d drop me an email that day to say that he had seen me. But could that squint really have been one of confusion? As though he knew me despite me being a stranger?

I know that you want to know what the deal is with Saleem and I, and it will take much more than one entry to quench your curiosity because we go further back than the eye can see, and further still than the heart can contain. My bundle of memories that was wrapped with guilt is threatening to resurface in order to tell this tale. It is one filled with days of belly-aching laughter and stinging streaks of tears; one of undeniable days of hope and many long phone conversations and emails; it is brimming with not only unhealed heart wounds, but also desperate need for reconciliation. I’m human, and I have slipped more times than can be counted for eternity - and so I write our story. I do not promise it to display an ounce of perfection, for I have merely been fashioned by One who is Perfect, and I am far less than that. It is a story that will display emotions borne by all humanity, especially that of love.

***

I was a regular girl back then, doing pretty well at school and with selected, yet close friends. In Maths I used to sit next to a girl named Irene — Irene Ink. She was pretty a blond-headed girl, with a deep dimple planted in her left cheek. It was semi-permanent as a faint dip was evident even when she wasn’t smiling, a sign that she smiled excessively. It was common knowledge that Irene was the person to go to for Maths advice, but being the 15 year olds we were, we didn’t go to Irene for advice, just solutions for our assignments. We were the perfect contrast, Irene and I: the mantra opposites attract was certainly true for us, and our differences brought us closer than any other girls in our year.

I often blocked out the guys in school - my mother had always warned me that boys equal bad things, and I constantly reminded myself of that. It was often hard to decipher the difference between something being caught in a guy’s eye  and a wink, so I decided that ignoring them entirely was the best thing for both parties lest I embarrassed myself. While girls like Charlene, Liz and Roxanne were drooling over the latest triceps and biceps that hit their bulge radar, I walked on by while linked arms with Irene as we discussed what we would eat for lunch.

And it could have been a normal day, as had been every other day in that school year. We were starting our GCSEs and I was determined to get a good grade in Maths and English, at least. I was thrown off my pedestal of focus by a note that was slipped beneath my pencil case in a Religious Education class. I barely noticed the pair of grey trousers that rushed past as the yellow post-it note was expertly slide on the table. The conversation Latoya and I were having about Islam was getting hot - I was trying to explain that I was not a member of the Nation of Islam when I caught a glimpse of a dark hand contrasted by bright yellow to my left; I stopped mid-sentence and almost choked on my words. Latoya attempted to divert the conversation just as her eyes diverted to the sea of grey trouser-wearing guys in the corner of the room. A smile crept into the corners of her bright pink lips until a full grin displayed her wonderful set of crooked teeth.

“You’ve got a note, Maymunah,” she cooed.

“State the obvious, Toya,” I said, rolling my eyes twice and then a third time for good measure.

She knew who left the note, but the grin on her face, coupled with the dancing light in her eyes told me that she wasn’t going to divulge the information that easily.

I slid the folded yellow sheet from beneath my purple polka dot pencil case, and swayed between the decision of unfolding it or not.

“Open it, then!”

I shot my deadly slitted eyes and furrowed eyebrows look at her, a sure sign that it was time for her to remain quiet. She firmly placed an index finger over her lips and the large saucers in her eyes told me she was sorry.

Carefully, I unfolded that paper to reveal a bubbled scrawl. The way the ink was rolled across the paper displayed an urgency that I had never seen before.

Call me. Saleem.

His phone number was written beneath his name, but with careful consideration of each digit. Each was placed with almost perfect spacing and alignment on an invisible straight line. The urgency had waned, and seriousness was clearly displayed. He really wanted me to call him. Saleem.

© Umm Junayd, December 2009.