2. Raees
2
Raees
“ Z inneerah, you look beautiful,” I say while practicing my sign language in front of my iPhone’s camera. Or maybe . “Zinneerah, you are the example of beauty. You make me question why I exist—”
Three knocks rap at my door.
Oh, for the love of God.
I don’t have any office hours currently and students remember to book weeks in advance due to my high-scaling rate of attendees. My office is a revolving door of re-graded midterms and re-taken quizzes, all because, as the folklore in the literature department goes, “You’re the professor who separates the wheat from the chaff, Raees.”
Paradoxically, my classes have the lowest dropout rates.
I close my ASL textbook, tabbed and highlighted with self-taught lessons, and slide it into my messenger bag. “Please, come in.”
Dua peeks in. “Hey, Shaan bhai.”
I offer a warm smile and motion for her to take a seat. “It’s ‘Professor’ on campus, Dua.” I power up my computer screen and clarify, “And it’s Raees bhai for you. ‘Shaan’ is my mother’s family name.”
Looking a bit puzzled, she questions, “Huh?”
I chuckle lightly. “Unconventional, I know. But after my parents’ divorce . . . my mother chose her maiden name again.” Brushing aside the topic of my family’s nomenclature, I lace my fingers together on the desk. “So, what brings you here today?”
“The internship. Do you have any news for me?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Dammit.” She runs her fingers through her short, light-brown hair in frustration. “Okay, no worries. It’s just my second-year spring term. I’ll focus on improving my GPA and refining my transcript to an outstanding level. Then Anne won’t have any option but to finally send that acceptance email that’s been sitting in her drafts folder gathering digital dust bunnies.”
The only thing I can offer is a pitiful smile.
“Since I’m already here, I might as well ask about Zinnie,” Dua mentions, idly playing with my name plaque. “How is she?”
Avoiding me. “She’s doing well,” I reply.
“Did she sleep at all?”
This morning, I made a quick stop by her door, just to make sure she was all right, to see if she had adjusted to her new surroundings. Instead, all I heard was the unmistakable sound of deep snoring. She’s quite a sheltered soul, so seeing her settle into her new bed, her new room, in our new, larger house, filled me with a sense of pride for both of us.
Dua chortles. “Just give her some time. Trust me, once you crack her shell, she’s a riot and surprisingly clingy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I start gathering my things, eager to catch up with Zinneerah later. “How are you managing solo?”
“Oh, I’m good. Sure, I miss Zinnie’s company in the apartment, but I’ve been prepping for this since you showed up at our door with the proposal last year.” She absentmindedly fiddles with her jacket zipper, sliding it up and down. “But Zayan, my boyfriend—I don’t know if you know him?”
“Hard to miss SLU’s volleyball sensation, Dua.”
She lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well, he’s crashing over whenever he can, so I’m not exactly drowning in solitude.” Stretching her arms above her head, she rises from her seat and snags her backpack from the floor, a colorful array of pins and keychains adorning it. “Listen, as your sister-in-law, I want to let you know that this marriage will test your patience. You’ve already shown it by waiting a year for Zinnie to say yes, but the real test begins now.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You make it sound ominous.”
Dua’s expression is contemplative. Her throat works a gulp, fingers gripping tightly onto her bag straps. “My sister, she’s . . . she’s strong as steel yet delicate as glass. Her resilience is unmatched, but her heart, it’s vulnerable. It’s in your hands now, Raees bhai, so please, please don’t drop it.”
My heart races against the confines of my chest. That’s the last thing—scratch that, it’s not even in the realm of possibility.
Breaking my beautiful wife’s heart is simply out of the question. I’ve been the epitome of patience for nearly six years now. I wouldn’t dare rush her into picking up the pace in our marriage. I’ll wait years, decades, even centuries if it means catching a glimpse of her breaking out of her cocoon or feeling her hand graze against mine.
She’s not just my wife; she’s my universe encapsulated in one person.
Dua’s suppressed laughter breaks me out of my running thoughts. “Oh, yeah,” she muses, “I always knew you were the chosen one, Professor.” She twirls on her heel and heads out of my office.
I lean back in my chair, idly spinning my wedding ring around my finger. “Damn right I am.”
The drive back home from campus takes approximately twenty minutes. If I could, I’d break a few speed records just to get to my wife’s side ten minutes sooner.
Ramishah helped us set up a security app on our phones that’s technically like having a virtual guard dog minus the barking. Shahzad insisted on private cameras all around our property when we met up for coffee in May.
Was I dying to escape the suffocating intensity of his thirty-minute glare? Absolutely.
But I also needed to make a lasting impression on him, so, naturally, I complied with his security demands. Plus, I’ve noticed my wife has this nervous energy and flinches at the slightest intrusion into her personal space.
Take our wedding, for instance. Whenever kids leaped onto the stage and let out joyful squeals, Zinneerah would visibly shrink. Or when her well-meaning relatives showered her with blessings that involved cheek-pinching and awkward hand-kisses—it was like she was dodging bullets in a social minefield.
Zinneerah was squirming in her seat, teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. Being her husband, I took matters into my own hands, discreetly signaling my mother that we were off-limits to everyone but close family. Thank goodness for that intervention because the moment the pressure eased, my wife’s complexion became much less pale.
Pulling into the driveway, I steal a quick glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Hair? Check. Breath? Minty fresh. Glasses? Smudge-free.
All set to make a good impression on my bride.
I step into my house, met by an eerie silence. Slipping off my shoes, I head to the kitchen and notice the notepad exactly where I left my message. Did she read it?
“Zinneerah?” I call out, peeking into the living room and scanning the backyard.
No sign of her.
Her bedroom door remains shut tight, and I’m not about to play detective and barge in. The security app is blank about any house exits, so she’s definitely hiding in here somewhere.
With a resigned sigh, I opt for a hot shower and a change of comfortable clothes.
Afterwards, I venture down to the basement—the final frontier. And what do I hear from outside the door? Sounds of a slasher film.
A smile bends at my lips. Looks like she’s found her favorite horror collection.
Now, I must confess, anything involving clowns on tricycles, masked killers, or zombies sends shivers down my spine. But my lovely wife? She’s a card-carrying horror aficionado.
Quietly, I push open the theater room door and spot her in the back row, head tilted to the side, dark eyes shut in a peaceful sleep amidst the on-screen carnage. A packet of oatmeal cookies rests on her lap, a sprinkle of crumbs on her clothes.
Taking off my glasses to blind myself from the splattering human guts, I quickly turn off the massacre and flip on the lights, adjusting the dimmer with a twist.
I crouch down beside her. The glint of her diamond ring sends a jolt through me, preparing my heart to burst into a shower of celebratory confetti.
“Zinneerah?” I whisper.
She is out like a light. Completely out.
I recall how drained she looked last night, barely touching her food at the buffet. Of course, her mother’s constant nagging about her posture and unenthusiastic interaction with relatives and their rehearsed pleasantries didn’t help either.
Walking over to the laundry nook, I grab a blanket and return to her side, unfurling it and draping it over her form from shoulders to toes. Her socks sport tiny white skulls. Cute .
I pause, admiring the sight before me.
My hand hovers mid-air, fingers quivering as if tickling the ivories of an invisible piano.
Zinneerah wakes up.
I startle at the sudden rush of fear coursing through me and instinctively take three steps backward. “My apologies,” I blurt out.
She doesn’t bat an eyelash.
Her eyes, as dark as midnight, dart between the hand I just retracted and my flustered expression.
“Have you had anything to eat?” I ask, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.
Zinneerah yanks the blanket off her frame and tosses it aside.
“Is everything all—”
She snatches her oatmeal cookies, shooting me another bone-chilling glare before vanishing from the room like a breathtaking phantom.