Chapter 11
As awful as the run was, it’s not nearly as bad as the thought of Aashiq making me sit at my desk and write the positive affirmations.
It’s so weird, putting those thoughts to paper.
Yes, I know that says a lot about my mental health and attitude toward myself, but just the idea of affirmations makes me scrunch my nose in distaste.
It’s why I purposefully take a long time in the shower and getting ready for the workday.
I blow-dry my hair, then put on a tan turtleneck and sleek black pants.
I hate to admit it, but I can feel a distinct difference after waking up super early and going for a run.
I don’t feel as sluggish, nor does my head ache.
In fact, I feel…fresh. Rejuvenated. Man, does that suck.
Exercise actually does improve your well-being.
When I get out of the bathroom, I find Aashiq on the couch.
It’s kind of a funny sight, because his legs are so long and our couch is so small that his knees basically touch his chest. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt, a fitted tan blazer, and black dress pants, his preferred attire for the office.
The only thing off is his tie—it’s slightly askew near his collar.
Dimly, I realize the color matches my shirt.
“You know, you don’t have to dress so formally,” I say as I grab my coat from the closet and drape it over my arm. “You’re just shadowing me at the office. And you’re not even really doing that.”
“All the other lawyers dress like this,” he reasons.
“Yes, but you’re not a lawyer,” I remind him.
“Nuances,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I never get to dress up because I’ve never had a body to dress up. I want to express myself and try different things.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. He’s got a point; he has a chance to discover what he likes. Who am I to deny him that opportunity? “Does expressing yourself involve wearing your tie crooked?”
Aashiq wrinkles his nose, then turns his gaze downward. “What?”
I gesture for him to stand up, and when he does, my hands go for the tie. I readjust it until it’s straight. “There,” I say. “You’re good.”
When I look up at him, Aashiq’s curious stare explores my face. I’m not exactly sure what he’s trying to find, but the extended eye contact brings heat to my cheeks. His gaze lingers on mine for a beat before he takes a step back. “Thank you,” he says, though his voice is strained.
My hands hover in the air for a moment, then drop to my sides. “You’re welcome. We should probably get to work.”
His shyness suddenly dissipates. “Not until you write your affirmations for the day. And you need breakfast.”
I glance at the clock on the stove. “There’s no time. We’re going to be late.”
I turn around and go to the front door without waiting for a response.
Thankfully, his footsteps clack behind me, and I hold the door open for him after I step out.
Once I’ve locked it, we make our way to the subway station.
When we get out close to the office, Aashiq makes me stop and buy a bagel.
I almost protest, but the exercise I did combined with the fact I’ve already been awake for a few hours makes my stomach growl.
“This kind of food is nice every once in a while,” Aashiq says as I unwrap the paper and take a bite. “But you should get into the habit of making food at home. It’ll help to boost the balance in your life.”
“My life is perfectly balanced!” I garble around the cream cheese.
“It is not ,” he counters. “You do everything in extremes. Either you’re so dedicated to your work that you’re there until the late hours of the night, or you stay up until the early hours of the morning doing your writing.”
“Well, I guess it’s your job to fix that.”
He refrains from an eye roll. “You’re not making it easy for me.”
“I am who I am.” I stuff more of the bagel into my mouth.
Yet another thing that causes Aashiq to wrinkle his nose. “You shouldn’t be in such a rush to eat, either. Not only is it bad for your digestion, but you could choke.”
“Now you sound like my family doctor,” I grumble.
“Maybe you should listen to one of us,” he says.
“It’s not just the health factor. Food is something you’re blessed to be able to enjoy.
Inhaling your food takes away from your mindfulness.
It’s important to relish and appreciate each bite so you can remember you’re lucky to have food that’s good and clean and won’t make you sick.
” He eyes the wrapper holding my bagel together.
“For the most part. I don’t know how much I trust street food, personally. ”
My chewing slowed during his speech, and I drop my gaze down to my bagel.
It’s nearly done, but as we wait for the elevator up to the office, I take smaller bites anyway, conscious of my chewing.
Maybe he’s right. I typically think of food as fuel; something I only need to keep me going.
Actually, I often think of eating as more of a distraction than anything.
I’d rather be working or writing, so I eat as fast as possible so I can get back to work.
But he has a point about the mindfulness of food.
Isn’t that one of the reasons I fast during Ramadan?
To remember how blessed I am by Allah, to think about how lucky I am?
Ramadan isn’t all about food, but fasting all day, knowing I’m going to eat again at sundown, is enough to remind me I’m so fortunate.
By the time we get off the elevator, I’ve finished the bagel, but as I toss the wrapper into the garbage, I make the conscious decision to be more aware of my eating habits.
Once the day starts, it takes off, and I spend most of the morning fielding calls, rearranging court dates, and collecting files.
At Aashiq’s insistence, I even teach him how to use the photocopier.
He says it’s so he can be helpful, and to keep up the “shadowing” cover.
But I think he just wants an excuse to carry a big stack of papers around the office and act like a lawyer.
After a busy couple of hours, I finally get a chance to sit properly at my desk. I take a ten-second break, then pick up a pen and go through the to-do list I drafted with Aashiq last night. I usually keep these details in my head, but it is easier to have it all visually laid out.
Aashiq, as usual, hovers behind my chair. He peers over my shoulder, then, completely unprompted, asks, “Why is it so hard for you to say something nice about yourself?”
My pen skids on the paper, drawing a long jagged line through appeal for trial date change . I slowly turn my head. “What?” I prompt.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your attempts to dodge writing your affirmations down,” he states. “Why is it so hard to acknowledge something good about yourself?”
I grind my molars. “Well, a therapist would probably say it stems from the adults in my life picking at my insecurities since I was a child.”
He gives me an annoyed stare. “Come on ,” he says. “It’s not hard to list good things about you. You’ve got great qualities!”
I snort. “Oh, yeah? And how would you know?”
“I’m a part of you.” Aashiq places his hands on the back of my chair. “And I’ve had a chance to observe you in the real world.”
“Alright.” I put my pen down and turn to face him properly. “What have you observed, then?”
“Well, first of all,” he begins dramatically, “you’re a hard worker.”
I make a pssh sound. “Not that hard. Average.”
“You also diminish your hardworking qualities because you think these qualities are expected of you rather than something to admire,” he goes on.
“I’m the child of immigrant parents,” I remind him. “I’ve never forgotten how tirelessly my parents worked so I could have a good life, and I never will. It’s why I work as hard as I can.”
“It’s one thing for a parent’s work ethic to be taught to a child,” Aashiq says.
“It’s another for the child to actually follow through with it and keep the lessons in mind.
You do.” He starts listing items off on his fingers.
“You’re at the office early, you stay late, you’re always the first to volunteer for coffee runs for everyone in the office, and you bring it all back on your own.
And on top of all that, you’re a successful writer. ”
I scoff. “Our definitions of ‘successful’ are clearly different,” I say. “I’ve never been agented, and I’ve certainly never sold anything.”
“You wrote a book, didn’t you? From start to finish? All on your own?”
“Yeah.”
“Congratulations, you’re a successful author,” he decrees. “Your successes aren’t predicated on what other people think. It matters, first and foremost, what you think. And it’s obvious you don’t think you’re good, which is what I’m here to help with.”
“I still don’t get how you’re supposed to help with that,” I say.
Aashiq sucks in his cheeks, then catches a glimpse at my computer screen. “Oh! It’s time for lunch.”
My eyes widen. “ Please don’t invite my coworkers to lunch again.”
He chuckles. “Nothing that extreme, I promise.” He nods toward the exit. “We’re going for a walk.”
* * *
We grab a couple of salad bowls from a nearby restaurant, and even though I want to go back to the office, Aashiq forces me to sit on a bench in a nearby park.
It’s pretty full, mostly parents or grandparents watching over small children as they feed the squirrels or run around on the grass.
The chilly morning temperature has extended into midday.
Cold seeps through my pants and digs into my thighs, but I stay there on the bench, Aashiq standing behind me.
I told him to sit, but I guess after being cooped up in my head, he prefers to be as active as possible.