But then the stranger laughed.
The stranger laughed and my fear froze, my heart unclenched. I experienced relief for all of two seconds before I caught a glimpse of his face. He’d stepped into the severe light of a streetlamp and my eyes focused, unfocused; my soul fled my body. I felt it then—knew, somehow, even then, that I would not survive this night unchanged.
He wouldn’t stop laughing.
“My dear sister in Islam,” he said, affecting horror. “Astaghfirullah. This is shameful.”
Mortification was a powerful chemical. It had dissolved my organs, evaporated my bones. I was loose flesh splayed on concrete.
He did not seem to notice.
He placed a hand on his chest, continued the show. “A young sister in hijab,” he said,tsking as he towered over me. “Alone, late at night. Smoking. What would your parents—” He hesitated. “Wait. Are you bleeding?”
He was staring at my knee, at the tear in my jeans. A dark stain had been spreading slowly across the denim.
I dropped my face in my hands.
An arm reached for my arm, waited for my cooperation. I did not cooperate. He retreated.
“Hey, are you okay?” he said, his voice appreciably gentler. “Did something happen?”
I lifted my head. “I fell.”
He frowned as he studied me; I averted my eyes. We were now positioned under the same shaft of light, his face so close to mine it scared me.
“Jesus,” he said softly. “My sister is such an asshole.”
I met his gaze.
He took a sharp breath. “All right, I’m taking you home.”
That rattled my brain into action. “No, thank you,” I said quickly.
“You’re going to die of pneumonia,” he said. “Or lung cancer. Or”—he shook his head, made a disapproving noise—“depression. Are you seriously reading the newspaper?”
“It helps me de-stress.”
He laughed.
My body tensed at the sound. Ancient history wrenched open the ground beneath me, unearthing old caskets, corpses of emotion. I hadn’t talked to him in over a year—hadn’t been this close to him in over a year—and I wasn’t sure my heart could handle being alone with him now.
“I already have a ride home,” I lied, staggering upright. I stumbled, gasped. My injured knee was screaming.
“You do?”
I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe normally. I felt the weight of my dead cell phone in my pocket. The weight of the entire day, balanced between my shoulder blades. I was freezing. Bleeding. Exhausted.
I knew no one was coming for me.
My shoulders sagged as I opened my eyes. I sighed as I looked him over, sighed because I already knew what he looked like. Thick brown hair so dark it was basically black. Deep brown eyes. Strong chin. Sharp nose. Excellent bone structure. Eyelashes, eyelashes, eyelashes.
Classically Persian.
He rolled his eyes at my indecision. “I’m Ali, by the way. I’m not sure if you remember me.”
I felt a flash of anger. “That’s not funny.”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking away. “It’s a little funny.” But his smile had vanished.
