The Engagement - Aicha

     She would walk with him every few nights.  Often accompanied by her younger sister, they would stroll through the town, talking and laughing and translating and smiling.  More often than not they had no specific place to go; just walking together was enough.
     They met when the sun was low in the sky at an old, green and white mosque near her house.  He always arrived first.  Standing under a beaten light pole they shared, he would search for her among the passersby.  Time dragged on during those few minutes of waiting.  He was constantly coming up with reasons why she would not come: her parents objected, she had work, she was ill, she was with another.  The longer he stood alone under the light pole, the more preposterous his reasons became until finally, after forever, he would see her.  Heartbeats were skipped and smiles were spread when their eyes locked.  Once united, they would head off towards the north, walking along the main roads, waving hellos to friends and acquaintances.  These first minutes were devoted to recounting recent events, catching up on the other’s news, and asking about upcoming plans.  They walked slowly, dodging potholes and piles of trash, nodding and laughing and throwing sly smiles at each other.  Occasionally their hands would brush past each other, each begging to be held by the other, but neither could make the first move.
     They would carry on farther and find themselves in the crowded part of town.  Sellers stood behind blankets covered with various trinkets, yelling at the throng of people as it flooded by.  Men with carts of fruit snaked through the crowd, rolling slowly and asking for space to be made.  The pair made their way through the maze as though strolling through a wax museum, noticing occasionally a particularly interesting individual, but concerning themselves, for the most part, only with each other.  At every narrow passage he would hold back, allowing her to move through first, gently guiding her along with his hand on the small of her back.
     Coming out of the seller’s street they would arrive upon a large, open square where the town collected after the sun had set.  Here they would sit together and watch the crowd; little boys playing soccer in the open spaces, little girls chasing each other, old women catching up with one another.  The men sat at the cafés in the peripheries.  They smoked their cigarettes and drank their espresso, eyes fixed on the giant, flat TVs hung in the corners.  Their wild cheers rolled through the square in waves, momentarily displacing the calm.  The couple didn’t notice.
     She sat with him and she laughed at his jokes and her dark, acorn eyes sparkled in the moon light when she threw her head back.  Her hair was long and wild and always put up with bangs swept right to left over the eyebrows.  She was just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as in jalaba and scarf, and was just as stunning in either.  A thin layer of pink lip gloss covered her full lips but no other paint touched her face: she didn’t need makeup and therefore didn’t wear it and was all the more beautiful for it. 
     They would sit like this for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not, simply enjoying each other’s company.  They liked each other.  But they could only show it in the most subtle of ways, for nothing could come of it.