3. Raees
3
Raees
M y wife isn’t an early bird.
Meanwhile, I’m rising with the sun at six, pounding the pavement on my morning run, followed by a stint in my home gym, and preparing a hearty breakfast fit for champions by eight. In my mind, she’s gracefully sipping Earl Grey or wandering around the piano room.
Except, wishful thinking is my specialty, leaving me stranded on the back patio with my lecture notes, distracted by the ripples in our swimming pool.
Goddammit.
Isn’t this just a fine mess I’ve gotten myself into? I mean, seriously, what was I thinking last night, playing the part of the gallant knight and almost brushing her hair away from her face?
She was like a startled deer during our first meeting, all wide eyes and nervous energy, perched on the edge of her couch as if she had an eject button ready to launch her out of there at any moment.
Our families had left us to our devices in her apartment—the obligatory ritual before any arranged engagement.
Zinneerah avoided eye-contact, her eyes fixed on her trembling fingers entwined in her lap. I mirrored her silence, my own stare locked onto the window before us. As minutes stretched into an hour, my mind swirled with thoughts of a future with her as my wife.
The next day, I cried.
Happy tears, of course.
My mother delivered the news that Zinneerah wished to see me again. And so, for a blissful week and a half, we shared a comfortable silence. She seemed more at ease, lounging on the couch, absentmindedly tracing the lines on her palm with her thumb. Every now and then, she’d steal a glance my way, acknowledging my smile with subtle nods—
Creaks of a wooden door yanks my gaze upward, straight to Zinneerah’s balcony.
Speak of the angel.
The sun seems to play favorites as it bathes her rich brown skin in its golden glow the moment she steps out. Black, long strands dance in the breeze, framing her face like a dark halo, and with a flick of her bony fingers, she tucks a stray strand behind her ear, leaning against the wrought iron railing.
My breath catches as our eyes lock.
Electricity shoots up my spine, propelling me to my feet as if she were some heavenly being perched on a pedestal. If a glance could be a lifesaver, it would be my wife’s.
I offer a hesitant wave.
Clutching her cardigan tight around her, she twirls back into her room, leaving me to slump back into my chair, drumming my fingers against my chest in a futile attempt to contain the wild beat of my silly heart.
The Global Media and Journalism program has carved its own niche, founded in a run-down arts building beside one of Saint Lawrence University’s myriad extravagant STEM buildings.
While SLU is renowned for its top-notch engineering programs, our GMJ program is no less formidable. ‘Molding warriors of the media battlefield’ like it says on one of the many dramatic murals in our building.
Second year, however, is the litmus test where the weaklings are unceremoniously weeded out.
The remaining funds have found their way to revamping the ice-rink for the struggling hockey team and a new football field, despite our less-than-stellar track record in both sports. But it’s the volleyball squad that continues to hoist the banner of glory for SLU.
Anyway, I handle the first and second years with Mass Media journalism during spring term, thirds years with Influence of Digital Media in the fall term, and later the fourth years with specialized journalism regarding the environment and scientific research every spring.
With the start of the spring term, many undergraduates from various programs have chosen Mass Media as an elective, including eager first and second years looking for a quick head start. They often assume it’s an easy course, but according to my previous students, I’m notoriously the toughest grader. My profile on RateMyProfessor.com is proof enough.
Despite this, I walk into a lecture room filled with ninety-seven students, who quickly silence themselves and prepare their laptops.
“Morning, everyone,” I greet, receiving a dull, half-hearted response. Fair enough. It’s nine in the morning, and sitting through a three-hour lecture after a weekend of frat parties and vomiting on our mascot, Gary the Goose’s, statue is pure torture.
Dua sits in the very front, grinning ear-to-ear, and seemingly the most awake on behalf of every other student. However, a closer look reveals the assistant position is starting to wear her out. Her usually round face has become slimmer, and, without meaning to sound rude, she’s developed heavy, dark circles under her eyes. Her brown hair is tied back in a bun resembling a bird’s nest, and I can’t tell if that stain on her sweater is chocolate or something worse from cleaning up after the players.
I adjust my glasses and flick on the projector with the remote, displaying the slides. The weariness in the air dissipates as I clear my throat, and every colorful eye is now focused on the PowerPoint, fingers poised like guns, ready to fire away on their keyboards.
After class, I head over to Studio 365 to get a caramel latté. The place is almost empty, with only two girls hurriedly working on an assignment in the corner booth and an elderly man reading a magazine by the window.
“Slow day, huh?” I tap my card on the payment device.
“Too slow,” Penny replies with a sigh. “Boss is cutting hours and thinking about selling the place. I think we could turn it around if we attract more students. Just look at this place.”
She gestures to the sparse decorations, scratched floorboards, dirty windows, and stained beige wallpaper.
My eyes drift to the corner where they used to have open mic nights. The booth next to it is where my ex-fiancée admitted she’d gotten drunk, and cheated on me with a stranger at her bachelorette party.
But it’s also where I first heard my future wife singing, her voice cutting through the apologies rolling off my ex’s tongue.
So, yes, this café holds a special spot in my heart. I’ll be damned if Martin sells it off to some jerk who’ll turn it into a dispensary.
And besides, the coffee here is top-notch.
With my latté in hand, I leave a generous tip and head back to campus, finding a bench that overlooks the clock tower where the music department resides.
“God, I still can’t believe I’m married to Zinneerah Arain,” I mumble to myself.
It was six summers ago, when I was a nervous wreck on my first day as a professor, palms sweating, legs bouncing uncontrollably, lips parched as if I were lost in my own desert.
Everything was perfect. The sun hung high in the sky, burning through the clouds and over the students sprawled out on the grass.
Amongst the many was Zinneerah. It was only my second time seeing her since my breakup the week prior. I considered it a stroke of luck or perhaps a sign. She sat there, slightly slouched, with her black acoustic guitar and composition sheets scattered before her. The wind played with her hair, twisting it in the perfect dance, rendering her almost otherworldly, irresistible, calling .
I’d fled the scene as quickly as I could and spent the remaining minutes in an empty lab room.
God, what I wouldn’t do to see her sitting in the grassy field with her instrument and music sheets.
As I rise from the bench, I steal one final, longing glance at the spot beneath the oak tree where she sat, before making my way back to the faculty building for my evening lecture.
When I get home around eight, Zinneerah’s in the kitchen. As I walk in, she glances at me with worry, while she nervously chews her bottom lip. Something’s on her mind, and I would cut out my kidney for her to confide in me.
“Did you have dinner?” I ask, noticing the empty pots and the absence of any inviting aroma wafting through the air. Maybe she just didn’t feel like cooking tonight. Unless she can’t cook. Which is totally fine. It just gives me the spotlight to impress her. “Would you like me to make something for you?”
Her fingers move gracefully as she mouths, “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, I contemplate whether I should reveal that I am somewhat fluent in ASL given I’ve been learning for her since last year, or if I should wait for a more opportune moment, when she’s in a better frame of mind.
“Why are you apologizing?” I ask, setting my bag down on the kitchen counter. She’s standing near the pantry door, stocked full of her favorite snacks from top to bottom, with mine squeezed in wherever there’s space. My wife has a penchant for snacking, so what? “Is this about last night?”
There’s a tiny quiver in her chin as she signs “I’m sorry” once more. I long for her to meet my gaze, but as I watch tears cascade down her cheeks and her hands tremble violently as she wipes them away, my heart aches.
“Zinneerah, is it all right if I come close to you to tell you something?” I ask gently. She nods, and I approach, keeping a respectful distance. “Please don’t ever apologize to me for anything ever again. I should’ve made myself known last night before awkwardly watching over you. It was foolish and irrational, and I promise I won’t do it again.”
For a brief moment, she lifts her lashes, and my soul shatters at the sight of her tear-streaked eyes. She was already crying before I arrived, and I desperately hope it’s not because she’s blaming herself for something that wasn’t her fault in the first place.
“I promise,” I whisper, “to ask your permission when and where it’s necessary. It wasn’t my intention at all to make you uncomfortable. I sincerely apologize for it.”
A nod, and a weak thumbs-up.
I release a relieved breath through my nose. “Is there anything I can do to—” I stop mid-sentence, gesturing to my eyes to indicate her tear-streaked ones. “A tissue? Would you like a tissue?”
She nods.
I quickly retrieve two tissues and hand them to her. She thanks me, using them to dab at her eyes and blow her nose.
I stifle a smile behind my fist. “Are you feeling a bit better?”
She nods again, her expression grateful.
“Good,” I say with a smile. “If you need anything else, just let me know, okay?”
As she walks past me to dispose of the tissues, she gives a small bow of her head.
“Wait—” I start, but Zinneerah scurries back upstairs before I can finish.
I slump, bumping a defeated fist against my palm as her door shuts and locks.
Goddammit, Raees.