The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

  I looked at her, confused.

  “I think you need to consider investing more time in people. First dates are rarely great. You know this better than anyone. But it takes more than one meeting to really get to know a person.” As she continued, my mind reeled through all the one-date disasters I had experienced over the past six weeks. Was she talking about those guys? I had a difficult time believing I might’ve written any of them off too soon.

  “There’s no harm in giving someone a second chance, Leila,” she said. Suddenly, the plump aunty from the speed dating event was sitting in the corner sharing chum chums with Seema the matchmaker and my mother—the three of them nodding in unison.

  This was my future we were talking about. This was the person I could potentially spend the rest of my life with. While there was no harm in second chances, the right guy wouldn’t need a second chance to prove he was right for me. It would be obvious from the get-go. Of this I was convinced.

  “Tania, you were at that event last weekend. Aside from the one normal guy you met, do you honestly think any of those speed dates were worth a second chance?”

  “They weren’t all bad—”

  “What about Mr. Bollywood?”

  “Omar? The guy Hannah set you up with?” She shrugged.

  “Mr. BAM BAM BAM?” I emphasized to jog her memory. “You’re telling me that guy wasn’t as obnoxious as a self-checkout machine at the grocery store?”

  “Leila.” She sighed. “He liked to sing. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal?!” I stared at her, feeling frustrated. Why was she trying to minimize this? “You know what, forget Omar. What about Imran, Sajid, Mahmoud, and all the other ones?!” I cried in defense. “Do you really think I missed an opportunity with any of them?” I waited as she thought for a moment.

  “Assuming they were really as bad as you described them . . .” She hesitated.

  “Are you saying I exaggerated how awful those dates were?”

  “No . . . Leila . . .” She trailed off. “Leila, I get that you’re under a lot of pressure—”

  “I’ve got six weeks to find a husband. Not a date for prom, Tania. I’m looking for a husband! Yeah, I’m under a lot of pressure,” I said with a sneer. Why was she acting like the idea of marriage was no big deal? If anyone understood the magnitude of this situation, it should’ve been her.

  “I’m just suggesting—for your sake—to perhaps reconsider your approach moving forward.”

  What approach did she think would help me be more successful at this? I had agreed to go on blind dates, online dates, speed dates. I had gone to a professional matchmaker and even suffered through an ambush date! After all my efforts, I still had to endure taunts from my parents about “not trying hard enough.” And as if that weren’t bad enough, I had to watch my mother’s face crumple each time she asked me about another failed date. I really didn’t need my friends to start criticizing me too.

  “I just think it might help to relax a bit.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve already found someone,” I muttered scornfully.

  Tania turned a deep red.

  “Look, Leila. I know what it’s like to be tossed aside at first glance,” she said, her voice slightly quivering. “But no one is perfect. Everyone you meet is going to have flaws or something about them you may not like.”

  I looked down at my hands and sighed. I didn’t want flaws. I wanted the quintessential, human embodiment of those seven napkins.

  “Choosing to focus only on a person’s flaws rather than all the other things they may have to offer is only going to hinder you in this process.”

  I slumped back in my chair, allowing her words to sink in. My mind drifted back to all the men I had rejected from the matrimonial sites without so much as meeting them because they had used a dangling modifier, or liked pineapple on their pizza, or mentioned “collecting stuff” multiple times in their bios. I still felt justified in most of those dismissals . . . but perhaps there may have been some instances when I reacted too hastily.

  “It might help to ease up on some of your expectations, Leila. That’s all I wanted to tell you.”

  I sat there for a moment ruminating over her advice. I wondered if anyone had ever told Rani Mukerji’s character to “not be so hasty” when she dressed up as a man to impress her sexy yet serious cricket coach in Dil Bole Hadippa! Or if they had asked Aishwarya Rai’s character to be “more realistic” when she spent decades pining after a childhood crush despite his family’s disapproval in Devdas. I sighed again, taking a sip of my drink.

  As much as I wanted my real-life love story to mirror the fictionalized romances I saw in the movies, maybe it was time to come to terms with the fact that these tantalizing fantasies were nothing more than just that. Fantasies. What if I did invest more time in people? What if I gave myself more than an hour to get to know someone? Maybe Tania had a point. I was starting to come to terms with the fact that Mr. Perfect probably didn’t exist, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find someone great.

  Suddenly, my phone vibrated, jolting me from my thoughts. Before I could check to see who it was, Tania grabbed the phone off my desk.

  “Who’s Zain?” She searched my face for a reaction as she held up my phone.

  “Zain?” The single syllable floated in the air for a few seconds before registering in my mind. Suddenly my mother, Yasmeen aunty, the plate of laddus—all of it came rushing back. “Give me that!” I reached for my phone.

  She swiveled back in her chair, just out of my reach. “He enjoyed meeting you the other day,” she read the text message aloud, her voice emphasizing each intonation. “He wants to see you again—minus the supervision this time.” Tania raised an eyebrow. She cleared her throat when I refused to say anything. “Um. Mind telling me what this is about?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “Nothing,” I groaned, rotating her chair forward with my leg and snatching the phone from her hand. “It was just a date that my mom arranged. I didn’t even know about it.” I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest.

  I looked at the screen and reread the text messages. I couldn’t believe Yasmeen aunty’s son was texting me. He had barely said two words to me that entire afternoon. I couldn’t really blame him, though. The whole setup by our mothers was utterly humiliating. I left that afternoon hoping to never be within a five-mile radius of him—or his mother—again. But maybe this was what Tania was talking about. Did I dismiss him too soon? What if this is my opportunity to give someone a second chance?

  As I tried to reason with myself, little voices of doubt kept creeping into the back of my mind: Why is he reaching out to me? Is it possible that he likes me? Even after the awkwardness of our first meeting? Or is he being forced to text me by our mothers? I tried to push these questions out of my head, but a tiny part of me couldn’t help but feel slightly skeptical.

  “I’m not really sure what I should say.” I looked at Tania sheepishly.

  “Here, give me that.” She took the phone from my hands. “Based on the great advice I’ve just given you, you’re going to message him back saying, ‘Yes, of course I’d love to see you again, Zain,’” she read out each word slowly as she typed. “‘Let me know when you’re free.’” She tapped her finger on the screen. “Aaaand send.” She held out her hand in my direction—the phone sitting neatly in the cup of her palm—with a smug look on her face.

  I grabbed the phone and desperately clicked on my messages. My heart sank as soon as I saw the blue bubble. “You put a winky face at the end!”

  “Yeah, so?” She shrugged.

  “Oh my God!” I covered my face in shame. “Tania! Only desperate girls use the winky face emoji!” I grumbled through my hands.

  “Leila, relax.” Tania tried to calm me. “Haven’t we had this discussion before? You are desperate.”

  I shot her a dirty look through my fingers.

  She laughed. “Don’t overthink everything.” She pulled my
hands from my face. “You have six weeks left till your deadline. Forget all your expectations and just go with it.”

  I glanced down at my vibrating phone.

  Great! How’s tomorrow night? the message read.

  I stared at it. My first date with Zain had not exactly been romantic by Bollywood standards, but my repulsion to that afternoon had more to do with my mother than with him. Although I’d had my doubts as to whether he had been involved with the ambush in some way, maybe a second try would still be worth it—as long as he wasn’t being coerced by his mother this time. Also, the likelihood of a second date going any worse than the first was staggeringly low, and with my deadline looming, I knew I couldn’t afford to lose out on another potential prospect. My heart palpitating like a magnitude five earthquake, I finally picked up the phone and started typing.

  Sounds great! I texted back. I looked at Tania nervously. She gave me a reassuring grin, and the little tabby smiled at both of us from behind the illuminated screen, reminding me that there might be a small glimmer of hope just yet.

  Take Two

  I walked into the lounge area of the Blue Dolphin. The smooth, soulful sound of jazz greeted me from the small stage at the front of the room. I crisscrossed my way between cocktail tables covered with liquor-filled glasses and steeped in intimate conversations, scanning the room for Zain. Seriously, what is with Muslims and dating in bars? I adjusted my blouse nervously and smoothed out my ankle-length pencil skirt. I had taken extra care to look my best, since the last time we had met, I’d been sporting a hoodie and drool.

  There were plush sofas lined up along the back wall separated by thin curtains giving an illusion of privacy. The air was thick with a smoky quality, and the lights were dimmed, with the exception of a single spotlight focused on a sexy singer onstage—a slender, mocha-skinned woman with curly hair and a sultry voice nuzzling up against the microphone as if she were a slinky cat on the prowl. A saxophone player and a pianist played in the background, but all eyes were drawn to the singer. I watched her curiously, trying to memorize her subtle movements in hopes that her coolness would somehow transfer onto me. I was so entranced by her performance that I didn’t even realize that Zain had arrived until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey.” He smiled, still touching my shoulder.

  “Hey.” I returned the smile, tucking a strand of loose, wavy hair behind my ear.

  “You made it.”

  “I did.”

  His hand softly glided down my arm to my elbow. “I saved us a seat,” he said, leading me toward the back wall. He drew aside one of the semi-sheer curtains and gestured me in. There was no one in there. I guess he meant what he said about not wanting any supervision. I took a seat on the couch and adjusted the pillows behind me. Zain sat down next to me. We both glanced at each other and then quickly looked away, laughing nervously.

  Within moments, a cocktail waitress appeared. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “An Arnold Palmer would be nice.”

  Zain turned to me with surprise. “You don’t drink?”

  “No,” I replied, surprised by his surprise. “Do you?”

  “I don’t,” he said, still smiling. This time I was taken by surprise. In my past experiences, it was rare to find a Muslim American man who didn’t drink, at least socially. While my abstinence to alcohol was partially for religious reasons and partially a personal choice, it was refreshing to know we shared this in common, even though I didn’t yet know Zain’s reasons for not drinking. What if he was more religiously conservative than I was? Which might end up being a turnoff . . . Or what if he swung farther to the left and was a recovering alcoholic who was laying off the booze for some kind of twelve-step program? Despite my desire to find out more, I resisted the urge to judge prematurely and simply returned his smile.

  “How about we make it two Arnold Palmers,” he told the waitress, and waited until she left before facing me again. “I had a feeling there was more to you than your love of laddus.”

  “I had no idea that was a setup, by the way.” I touched my face nervously with the tips of my fingers. I could feel my cheeks getting hot.

  “Neither did I.” He grinned. “But I think that was the point.”

  I was relieved to know he hadn’t been involved with the ambush. It made him seem more likable. More trustworthy. The waitress came in with our drinks, and Zain politely thanked her.

  “So what made you reach out to me after all of that?” I stirred my drink with the thin red straw and took a sip. “One afternoon of torture wasn’t enough for you?”

  “Well, to be honest, I felt bad.”

  “Oh?” I asked, trying to push aside my disappointment. He felt bad? I knew he’d only contacted me out of pity. I tried to play it cool, but I could feel the heat rising in my face once again.

  “I felt bad,” he repeated, taking a sip, “that we didn’t get a proper chance to meet each other the first time around, so I wanted to do it right.” He gazed directly into my eyes, and I blinked, looking away. It was the first time I noticed how attractive he was. He had warm brown eyes that half squinted each time he laughed. His short hair curled neatly at the nape of his neck, and there was a small black mole right above his upper lip that disappeared whenever he smiled. “You’re definitely someone I’d like to spend more time getting to know.”

  “Really?” I squeaked, then suddenly looked down, embarrassed about coming across as too eager.

  “Really.” He smiled. My skin tingled as I felt his eyes on me. I liked that I didn’t need to compete with his phone, or an ex-lover, or his passion for singing to get his attention. I had it all, and there was something exhilarating about that.

  “I do feel like there’s something missing, though,” he said.

  I looked around the enclosed room, the sounds from the other side of the curtain filling the small space. “Our mothers?” He chuckled and moved in closer on the cushion next to me. The top of his knee bumped against my leg, and for a brief second, the room felt electric.

  “I was thinking food.” He grinned, motioning toward the waitress, who had come back inside.

  After we had given our orders, I asked Zain about the new clinic he was opening in Los Angeles. He shrugged and said, “You don’t really want to talk about that, do you? Why don’t you tell me more about all the young minds you mold?”

  I smiled and began telling him about teaching—how I stumbled into it accidentally and ended up falling in love with the idea of somehow making a difference. I talked about my friends; my family; my life. I was drawn to his sense of ease. His humble mannerisms. He was confident but not arrogant. Affectionate without trying too hard. On past dates, conversations had felt loaded, fraught with nerves, but talking to Zain was comfortable. Easy.

  “So what kind of movies do you like?”

  “Action, thrillers. Oh, and my all-time favorite movie is Star Trek: First Contact!” he said, excitedly.

  “Star Trek!” I feigned shock. “I had no idea you were such a nerd.”

  Zain pretended to look hurt. I giggled.

  “You know, normally this would be the point where we would go our separate ways, but I’m trying this new thing out where I actually give people a chance.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I feel so lucky.”

  “Also, I’m really hungry, and the food hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Zain laughed. “You know what I like about you, Leila?” He leaned in as if to tell me a secret. I took in the smell of his skin—clean and sharp, like the cool air right after it rained.

  “What?”

  “I like that you make me laugh,” he said, his eyes creasing at the edges.

  The heat from Zain’s body closed in the gap between us, and everything stood motionless as our eyes locked for a few still moments. My heart pumping in my ears, I felt like I was under a spell. Is he thinking of kissing me? I thought as he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Hi
s fingers lightly caressed the outline of my chin, the soft touch lingering even after he drew his hand away. Zain playfully leaned his shoulder into mine, and I turned away. We both laughed just as the waitress walked in with our food.

  We spent the next couple of hours in the privacy of our curtained enclave enjoying each other’s company. We swapped embarrassing childhood memories—like when his mother dressed him up in a gold sequined shirt and had him perform “Tu Cheez Badi Hai Mast Mast” onstage at his school talent show. Or when he found out that the marshmallows in his favorite Lucky Charms cereal were not halal and he locked himself in his room and cried for half a day.

  Through the night, I had to keep reminding myself to play it cool because the last thing I wanted was to end up disappointed. But every time I heard the sound of his laugh, or felt his body close to mine or his fingers press against my knee, I felt fireworks inside. I was engrossed by his presence. I wanted to know everything about him. Even when he was sharing the most mundane details about his work, I found myself captivated, hanging on his every word. I liked Zain. I liked who he was. I liked how he made me feel, how I could be entirely myself around him.

  At the end of the night, Zain walked me back to my car, and just as I was about to turn away, he pulled me in close, embracing me with a tight, lingering hug. I could feel myself melt into his arms, the sound of our hearts synchronizing into one steady beat. As I mentally went down the list of all the traits I could remember, I couldn’t believe how easily I was able to check them all off: #2: HONEST—check. #4: SENSE OF HUMOR—check. #8: SUCCESSFUL—check. #10: NORMAL—check. #17: CHARMING—check. #46: SEXY—check, and on and on. Never had someone come so close to everything on that list. He might not have been Mr. Perfect, but he was pretty damn close.

  When I finally got home, I tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom. By the sounds of the snores, I could tell they were both fast asleep. I went over to the right side of the bed, where my mother lay passed out, and kissed her softly on the cheek, careful not to wake her. Despite all her crazy antics, I was glad she hadn’t given up her matchmaking schemes entirely. Maybe she did know what she was doing. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I needed her after all.