Love, Hate and Other Filters(16)

We both crack up, because we know it’s the one line even most lapsed Muslims won’t cross.

The appetizer arrives—a steaming Crock-Pot of bubbling cheese fondue with three types of breads and apples with tiny dipping forks. I move the candles around on the table in hopes that the addition of the canned heat under the pot will maybe give me enough light to get a decent shot. I take my camera and film as Kareem dips a piece of bread into the cheese, spinning the melted strands around the end of his fork. He plops it into his mouth. “H-h-h-o-o-t-t!” he yells.

“Water,” I suggest, but continue to record Kareem’s open-mouthed struggle with the piping hot cheese—total culinary drama.

He downs a full glass of water. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop filming. What if that cheese had burned off the roof of my mouth and it was the last morsel of food I would ever enjoy?”

“All the more reason to preserve the moment,” I reply. “Priceless.” I put the camera down because I don’t need a shield anymore and because I’m hungry.

We dip and eat and talk about our parents and being Indian and the pressure to be a doctor and the Indian aunties who always think you are a little too skinny or a little too chubby and never perfect. We rate our favorite Indian foods and joke that how the first thing we both want when we fly back from India is an actual Big Mac.

“I wish getting a Big Mac was still my biggest concern when I pass through customs these days,” Kareem mutters.

“What is it, fries?” I joke.

“More like hoping I don’t get chosen for the special Secondary Security Screening lottery.”

My smile fades. He’s not joking.

“Crap. That’s happened to you?” I sigh. Not sure why I am at all surprised.

“Twice, coming back home. The first time they took me into this back room. I waited for, like, two hours with all these other brown dudes before being called into a separate room and being asked these basic questions like is this really my name and what was I doing in India and do I have relatives in Pakistan. Whatever.”

“That’s horrible.”

He flashes a bitter smirk. “Hey, at least I wasn’t handcuffed to a wall, right?”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and lightly touch his arm.

He places his hand on mine. “Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for.”



When we’re a block away from Hina’s apartment, I realize it’s drizzling. Maybe it’s been drizzling since we left the restaurant; I’m not even sure. Kareem clutches my hand, and we run to take cover under a crabapple tree. It’s April, so everything is in bloom. Pink petals fall on us, clinging to our wet faces. I glance up through the branches, backlit by the street lamps. I breathe in the sweet, delicate scent. It lasts only a few weeks each spring. If I’d dreamed up this mise-en-scène, I would’ve thought it a cliché. But in real life, it is perfect.

“What are you thinking?” Kareem whispers.

I look at him. “If this were one of my parents’ retro-Bollywood faves, I’d run behind that tree right now and come out singing and in a different outfit.”

Kareem gently hooks a finger under my chin and draws my face toward his. “But if this were an old Indian movie, I couldn’t do this.” He bends down and gently brushes his lips against mine. The earth stops moving. I am frozen in this spot of time.

Turns out, I’m fond of kissing. Extremely. I close my eyes, losing myself in the falling petals, the light rain, the strength of his arms, his breath on my lips. I revel in the moment, the echo of his skin against mine.

Kareem pauses, strokes my cheek with his finger. “Your lips are so soft.”

I blush even as the rain cools my face. Kareem’s lips taste of wine and chocolate. He puts his left hand around my waist and pulls me closer so that our bodies touch. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I pull away because I feel myself being overtaken. “I should be getting inside. I’m soaking wet, and—”

“Okay, okay.” Kareem nods. “You’re a good Indian girl. I shouldn’t move too fast.”

I cringe a little, but he’s speaking the truth. “No, I’m not … I mean, I am, but it’s that, you know, we’re in front of my aunt’s place.”

Kareem laughs. “Then please allow me to escort you to the door in a gentlemanlike fashion. But first …” He grabs me and kisses me again, longer and harder. I let myself sink into the kiss—wild, reckless, until it’s suddenly too intense. I pull away, breathless.

Kareem takes my hand and leads me to Hina’s front door. He’s not merely being polite; my feet are wobbly.

“I want to see you again, Maya,” he says softly. “But next time, I’ll make sure there are no Indian relatives around.”

“Thanks for dinner,” I gasp. “I had a great time. Have a safe trip back to school …”

Kareem sneaks in one last quick kiss. I gape at him as the rain falls harder. Then he slips into his car. I unlock the front door, turning to wave goodbye before he speeds off.

Once his engine fades to silence, I shut the door and take a deep breath. I’m dizzy as I walk up the stairs to my aunt’s place. I can still feel the tickle of Kareem’s goatee on my face. I walk into the apartment and see the clock on the microwave flashing 12:05 A.M. and laugh out loud. If this were my house, my parents would have called the police by now. And there wouldn’t have been any kissing or hand-holding; I would’ve been too afraid of withering under their interrogation.