Ayesha At Last(12)

“I don’t drink,” she said coldly. “And if your name is Mo-short-for-Mohamed, you know why. Now please go away.”

“Not until you let me buy you a drink.”

Ayesha looked around until she caught the eye of Andy the Bouncer. “I’ll take a Hyderabadi Mud-Slam,” she said. “Ask Andy, he knows what I mean.”

When Ayesha had come to Bella’s on a more regular basis for open mike nights, a few of the veil-chasers had been relentless. Any time she used the term “Hyderabad,” Andy knew it was code for “Would you please have a friendly discussion with this gentleman about respecting a woman’s right to say no?”

“Anything for you, my brown princess.” Mo winked and loped off.

Mo’s buddies, who were sitting at the next table, started laughing loudly and she glanced over. Two of the men were true to type—greasy hair, greasy smiles, tight pants, the tabletop in front of them full of shot glasses. The third man gave her pause. He looked bored and aloof, and the clothes he was wearing caught her attention. He was dressed in a long white robe and kufi skullcap, his beard well past acceptable hipster levels. Their eyes met briefly. A tiny spark of electricity passed between them.

Ayesha looked away, and then back again.

He was a good-looking man, she acknowledged. Large brown eyes in a pale face, sensual mouth pressed into a severe line. His dark beard was thick and long, accentuating a square jaw and sharp cheekbones. The white robe, so stark against the sea of tight jeans and T-shirts, hinted at broad shoulders and a powerful chest. He kept his gaze on the table in front of him, finely sculpted brows furrowed.

He was not the sort of man Ayesha usually looked at. He looked a bit like a priest in a strip club, she thought with a smile. He looked up at her again, eyes dark as they observed her expression. She shivered, though the lounge was warm.

Clara came flying in at that moment. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been feeling rotten about our conversation. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time about school and your first day. I’m just worried you’re giving up on your dreams . . .” Clara was babbling, her eyes roaming the bar, looking for someone.

Ayesha’s eyes were still pinned on the strange man.

Clara followed her gaze. “Khalid,” she said, relieved.

“You know that guy? Is he lost?”

“Said the woman in hijab,” Clara shot back before walking to the neighbouring table.

“You invited me!” Ayesha called. She fished in her pocket for lip gloss, and her fingers closed around a small rectangular box. Nana’s cigarettes. She pulled them out and peered inside the packet.

“HAVING fun, Khalid?” Clara asked.

“Not particularly,” Khalid said. “I don’t feel comfortable here. Clara, you know Amir from work. This is Ethan and Mohamed.” A chastened-looking Mo nodded at Clara, and Ethan smiled brilliantly.

“’Sup, pretty lady,” Ethan said.

Clara ignored him. “You took my advice. It’s so important to invest in our work relationships.”

Amir tried to muscle into the conversation. “I agree, Clara. After all, we probably see our co-workers more often than we see our family . . . husband . . . boyfriend . . .”

Clara ignored him too. “We grow by exposing ourselves to new experiences.”

Khalid sat stiffly at the table. “This is certainly a new experience for me. I had no idea lounges smelled so bad.”

Clara leaned in close. “Maybe it’s not the lounge,” she whispered, nodding at the three other men. “If you’re bored, why don’t you join us?” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I’m here with my best friend. She’s Muslim too. Why don’t you meet her? I’m sure you have a lot in common.”

Khalid glanced at the young woman at the next table, and his expression of disapproval deepened. Ayesha was now holding three cigarettes in her hand and had a colourful cocktail in front of her. The look on his face betrayed his doubts about the Shirley Temple’s virginity. “I do not wish to be introduced to your friend. I stay away from the type of Muslim who frequents bars,” he said.

At the neighbouring table, Ayesha stiffened.

“To be honest, I regret coming here tonight,” Khalid continued. “My companions are only interested in drinking alcohol and accosting women, and it will be impossible to have a serious conversation. I hope I haven’t offended you, Clara. I try not to judge other people’s choices.”

Ayesha was gone before Clara returned to their table. Had her friend heard any of that exchange? It was loud at Bella’s, so probably not. She hoped.

ON her way to the ladies’ room, Ayesha ran into Andy the Bouncer. “I talked to that guy for you,” he said. “I hope he’s behaving.”

Ayesha nodded, her mind spinning. Who did that bearded fundy think he was? I try not to judge people’s choices . . . I stay away from the type of Muslim who frequents bars. Of all the judgmental, sexist jerks she’d ever met, he was the worst!

“You going to perform tonight?” Andy asked. “It’s been a while.”

Ayesha blinked at the smiling bouncer. “Thanks, Andy. All of a sudden, I’m feeling really inspired.”

THE crackle of a microphone caught everyone’s attention.

“Hey everyone, it’s time for our weekly Open Mike Poetry Slam!” Andy the Bouncer (and part-time poet) announced. “We are so excited to have a special guest. She’s been busy teaching, but tonight she is going to school you all with a special performance. Please welcome award-winning poet Grand Master Rhyme-Slam Shamsi!”