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How his life has changed. My eyes roam his black hair, wide shoulders, hands that haven’t touched me enough lately, the somber set of his brows.“Are you hungry?” I ask, avoiding what I really want to say. He shakes his head. “We can play a card game - watch a movie.”“Whatever you want.” If he spoke any more subdued, he’d be dead. I can feel the emotion bubbling inside me, threatening to boil, first in my stomach, then in my chest. I try to simmer it with a deep breath.Knowing no words will suffice, I decide on actions.Leaning over, I set my face parallel with his, hand stroking the stubble along his jaw. It doesn’t fully pull him from the abyss he’s in, but it does bring him to the surface. When I press my lips to his, the lines of our mouths meeting, it almost feels foreign. I hadn’t realized until this particular moment that we’ve hardly kissed lately. I know a lot has been going on, but that aberrant fact makes my heart ache. We can’t possibly be drifting apart. Sometimes it feels. ”“Tell me, then. How is it unholy?”“People there drink and smoke, and the women don’t cover themselves. They listen to strange music with these electric guitars. No one says their prayers. There are no mosques, only a few.”“You’ve been attending a mosque?”“Yes, and there I see mostly Africans as they are the only men in the city who remain pure to the faith. Certainly I see men from Arabia, but those I see are driving taxis or working at kiosks, and some of them I meet in the mosques. I’m growing sick and tired of New York. Each time I fall asleep I dream of Mecca, its warmth and companionship.”“Tell me, what have you been doing over there?”“I see the Imam’s parents every month, and I give them the monies set up by your father. I go to the mosque every night, and the other night, before I left, I saw the Imam for the first time.”“The Imam? I see. What does he look like? Did you meet him?”“No. I only saw him in the crowd. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him,” said Vasilla, wiping.
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