The next morning, Jane’s alarm chimed at seven like on all Mondays of her life, yet she didn’t have to rush anywhere. She took her time going through seven different outfits, blow-dried her hair, and created an ‘effortless’ natural makeup look. As a result, her blue jeans and the faint wrinkle on her neck appeared the same as any other day.
She glanced into the mirror above the sink and put her eyeliner down. This was driving her crazy. She wasn’t some silly chit going on a first date with a beau. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of her en suite washroom, passed through her bedroom, and cracking the door a bit, peeked into the hallway.
The faint hum of the street traffic reverberated throughout her apartment.
Mahsood must’ve been still asleep. She’d waken too early. Jane widened the opening and squeezed out into the corridor. Barefoot, she tiptoed past Nessa’s room into the common area and halted in the doorway.
Her husband’s sleeping place stood empty. A lonely wool blanket hung on the back of the futon. Neatly folded, it occupied the same spot where she’d placed it the night before. No, not exactly. She’d put it right in the middle, and at the moment it sat closer to the left. Jane moved forward and glanced around.
No Mahsood in the kitchen either, but his luggage nestled in the corner next to the sofa. She approached and glided her fingertips against the suitcase’s grainy leather and its tightly shut zipper. He hadn’t unpacked. Where was he off to?
She neared the window and looked outside.
The shadowed parking space, where Mahsood had left his Audi in the evening, stood vacant.
Jane lowered herself onto the couch and propped her head up with one arm. He’d escaped in the wee hours of their first day being married. Over the forty-eight hours he’d spent in the country, he couldn’t have accumulated urgent matters to be resolved on Monday morning. Perhaps, something had happened. Jane fished her phone out of her back pocket and stared at the screen. And she didn’t know his phone number either… She dialed Uncle Gafar.
After a few beeps, a stern voice answered, “Jane? You need anything?”
Uncle must’ve been hustling in his little gasoline empire. “Hello. Is Mahsood, by chance, with you?” she asked.
“He’s here. We’re working.”
“Ah.” She hesitated. “And when will he come home?”
“I don't know. We’re occupied. Talk later.“ He disconnected.
Jane clenched her teeth. She could’ve also been sitting in her office now and telling all callers that she was very, very busy. Fool. She didn’t actually expect a honeymoon, did she? Jane shook her head, got off the sofa, and headed to the coffee maker. After starting the machine, she perched on one of the bar stools.
The black liquid gurgled in the pot.
Jane reached for a mug and poured the first dose of caffeine. As the bitter burning liquid raced down her esophagus, her stomach curled into a tight coil. No, she wasn’t getting depressed over this. She was a determined, persistent, and rational woman, who achieved her goals no matter how hard she had to fight for them. Her vacation was in full swing and so was her marriage, and she would make the best out of them before they ended in a hole like the rest of her holidays…and relationships.
Jane chugged down the remainder of her beverage and looked around the tiny kitchen and the adjacent living room.
The apartment displayed pristine order. With her spending all her time at the office and Nessa out on excursions, no one made messes—not a single dirty dish in the entire place except for the mug in her hand. Mom had washed the teacups the guests had used prior to leaving for the Khan’s.
What did Aunt Ilma blabber about yesterday? Right, a husband had to be fed, which meant halal. She stepped toward the stainless steel refrigerator and examined the monster’s insides —three potatoes, a bag of weathered carrots, and half-full cardboard of eggs in addition to Aunt Ilma’s doggy bag.
Sad. Jane shut the fridge and grabbed her phone off the countertop. She opened her contact list and hesitated, her finger hovering over Aunt Ilma’s number.
No. She could handle this on her own. Jane clicked on a web browser instead and typed, ‘simple Pakistani recipes,’ then added ‘with video.’
The search engine produced skimpy results and nothing with a visual. All dishes required at least half a page of incomprehensible ingredients.
Jane paused at a recipe for chicken curry and scanned through the instructions. She knew what chicken was and how to identify it in a grocery aisle. That was a start, and her superb research skills would help out with the rest.
A small flutter pricked her chest, and she grinned. Now, to find the halal market that Mahsood had mentioned before. Google Maps had no trouble with that one—twenty minutes away and the road was clear of traffic. Luck was on her side. Jane snatched her car keys, ran downstairs, and slipped into her Prius.
***
A drive down I-65 took her to a quaint, ethnic-looking plaza, where a small supermarket huddled between an Ethiopian restaurant and an English-learning school. A huge sign on top of the glass-doored entrance confirmed that she was in the right place. Jane grabbed a shopping cart from the stand outside and headed in.
“Salam Alaikum,” the cashier, a bearded pot-bellied man, glared at her from behind the register. A woman wrapped in a hijab turned around and squinted as her hands holding a packet of tea froze mid-air.
“Good morning.” Jane nodded and squeezed out a smile. She rubbed her bare arms and sped up until she found cover behind some piled-up boxes. Would they ask her to leave? She stopped, pretending to look at some jars of pickles, and glanced back. No one was following her. Good. She walked on, the rattling of her cart resonating in the almost-sacred stillness of the place.
First thing—garam masala. According to the internet, it was a mixture of some sort of spices. Jane took a right toward the shelves carrying an assortment of brown powders—packets, cans, cartons, jars, and boxes, all filled with a ground substance in the shades from mustard to umber and the names displayed in squiggly hieroglyphics. Inhaling the heavy, gingery scent than hung in the air, she picked up one container and turned it around in her hand.
A small sticker in English resided on the back. Cardamom pods. She needed those. Jane threw the tan-colored spindle-shaped seeds into her buggy.
Next. Ground cloves. Not it. She crammed an overfilled container back onto the shelf. Wrong again. And not this one either. Jane took a packet with the reddish seasoning and flipped it over looking for the English name. Woohoo. Success. Now on to the half dozen other herbs.
Finding those took some hunting skills, but she got them all. Jane strolled through the market and added some items she’d seen in Uncle Gafar’s house—tortillas, jam, eggs, tea, rice, and a watermelon—then stumbled back to the front to face the whiskered store clerk.
Hassan, his name badge read. As he was transferring her purchases into plastic bags, he glimpsed up at her face and back down.
Jane shuffled from one foot to another. Where are her people skills? She forced her eyes to meet Hassan’s. “Nice store. Are you the owner?” she asked.
His head bounced up. “Yes.”
“I’m Jane,” she said, extending her hand. “My husband eats halal food, so I’ll come often.”
Hassan stared at Jane’s fingers before squeezing them in his palm. “Of course, sweetheart.” His mouth extended from side to side as his grip tightened, crushing Jane’s extremity in a tight, sweaty clasp.
She glanced around the almost deserted supermarket. Perhaps, she’d overdone it with friendliness. Jane wriggled her hand, and with some effort, it slipped out to freedom. “See you next time then.” She backed away nudging her cart along the path to the exit.
“Come anytime, darling.” Hassan’s voice rang behind her.
Her heart thumping, Jane reached her car, shoved the groceries into the trunk, and climbed onto the driver’s seat. She took a deep breath, leaning back. Mission accomplished. And the owner seemed to like her despite the awkward first impression. She was doing great. Jane started the engine and turned up the radio blasting Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off.
On the way back, a fender-bender blocked some lanes, and Jane sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Squinting, she flipped down the sun visor and once again pressed on brakes. Would Mahsood be home by the time she arrived? He shouldn’t have much to do on his first day. Perhaps, he’d gotten back and was now going through her near-empty fridge. Or, he’d eaten somewhere else. Jane tightened her grip on the steering wheel and glowered at the minivan in front of her.
She reached her exit and made a right on the Fourth. Her back straight and shoulders tense, she turned into her apartment complex and stretched out her neck, looking around. A few cars occupied some spots on a nearly empty lot—the nine to five crowd still hustled at office desks—and Mahsood’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen.
Jane exhaled and slumped back. Well, she had time to concoct the myriad-ingredient chicken dish. With the handles of the plastic bags cutting into her wrists, she dragged her purchases upstairs and tumbled into her residence.
Silence greeted her at the threshold, broken only by the insipid ticking of Nessa’s magenta clock. Stupid time-measuring device. And where was its owner anyways? She’d brought it here to daunt Jane and escaped to some mind-numbing adventure.
Jane proceeded to the kitchen and grabbed her headphones off the countertop. Plugging them into her ears, she blasted a pop-music playlist as she unpacked the groceries. In the back of an overhanging cabinet, she located a pot and a frying pan that she’d kept since her college days and dusted them off. Almost like new. She grinned. She knew that sooner or later these would come in handy.
As the rice boiled, Jane sauteed the chicken, mixed the spices for the sauce, and added them to the skillet. After the dish simmered for a bit, she picked up a piece with a fork and nibbled on it. A tangy, exotic taste filled her mouth. Spicy, but edible. At least, it cooked through. Jane placed the utensil down and turned off the music.
The sounds of cars from the building’s parking lot diluted the quiet around her—the working masses were arriving back to their abodes. Smiling, Jane scooped the curry into a serving bowl and rummaged for some decent-looking plates and glasses.
A motor rumbled underneath the window and shut down.
Jane froze, a mismatched set of silverware in hand. Her heart fluttered as she listened for footsteps on the landing. How long did it take to get up to the second floor? Two minutes? Five?
The corridor was still.
She sat down at the half-set table. Not him this time. But, he will come. Sooner or later. Jane pulled out her phone and opened the Math Master app.
The darkness was setting in, and the food had cooled and thickened, losing whatever attractiveness it had possessed. Jane had completed three levels in the game and now topped the performance chart. Should she’ve eaten without him?
Nausea crept up her stomach. Ugh. She got up and flipped the light switch on.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The hour handle approached ten. She, who usually struggled to find a moment for lunch, had been sitting over a meal for eons. Jane covered the untouched dinner with plastic film and put it away. For next time. Maybe.
A rustle came from the landing, and a soft knock rattled the front door.
Jane bit her lip as the corners of her mouth pulled upward. Finally. She circled the counter and halted, her hand on the doorknob. Jane peeked into an oval entryway mirror and tucked away a strand of hair, then opened.
He stood on the threshold, dressed in his invariable overcoat, and with a men's leather briefcase under his arm.
“Hello.” Jane glanced up into his bloodshot eyes.
“Good evening, angel.” He squeezed through the door frame and passed her into the living room.
“Will you eat dinner?” Jane followed him to the couch, where he put down his bag and unzipped it.
“No.”
“It’s halal. I went to the same market your family goes to.”
He looked up and a hint of a smile touched his lips. “I ate with my uncle. Thank you.”
“Oh.” A hollow feeling tugged at Jane’s chest. “Maybe tea? Or something else?” She gave him a side glance.
“Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about a thing.” He turned away and pulled some documents from his portfolio, spreading them out on her coffee table.
Jane approached and peeked over his shoulder as he was laying the papers in neat rows on the rectangular surface. Those were standard documents used in any company—income statement, cash flow, assets list, and such.
Without taking his attention away from the records, Mahsood sat down. He picked up one of them, and his gaze slid back and forth across the page, lingering on certain numbers and examining them with great care. He threw it back on the table, and closing his eyes, rested his head on the back of the sofa.
Jane lifted one of the reports and studied it—a balance sheet of a medium-sized company, probably Uncle Gafar’s. According to the figures, they owned substantial assets and not many debt obligations. Someone didn’t like to use credit—commendable but would slow down the growth of the enterprise.
“Put it back, angel. These are important.”
She turned toward him. “Let me help you with it.”
“I beg you. This isn’t any of your concern. Better go get some rest.”
“I know what I'm talking about.” Her voice picked up volume. “This is nothing. Less than an hour.”
“Listen to me carefully. I will say it once.” His hushed words thundered in the sudden quietness of the apartment. “Business is no place for a woman and especially not for my wife. And now I need to work.”
Jane gaped. She stood still for a few seconds before backing away and walking off.
Did he really say that? No place for a woman? Ha. And for him, it was the right place when he couldn't even understand the basic paperwork. Jane snorted. Wow. All those efforts to break the glass ceiling, and now the same old sexism settled on her couch.
She shut her room door and crashed onto her bed. If he was too proud to accept help, he could suffer all night. She opened the unfinished Math Master problem that required her to calculate the profits of a non-existent shoe factory.
Fifteen minutes later, five golden stars appeared on the screen.
Bingo. Perfect score. Unlike someone who was probably still figuring out what ‘revenue’ meant. She looked up from the display.
The light from the hallway filtered through the gap underneath her door. No sound came from the other side.
Jane rubbed her eyes and, setting aside her device, rested her head on the pillow. Should she have checked on him again? No. He crossed a line this time. What a ridiculous man. His mean words floated through her mind as it descended into slumber.89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0zPaYXe6Uv
