Love, Hate & Other Filters(15)

I envision a skinny, buck-toothed version of Kareem, running around with his mom, shrieking with laughter. “Arrh, matey!” they shout at each other. I’m smiling, but I feel a twinge of sadness. I don’t have those Kodachrome images of my own childhood escapades. It’s just not how I grew up.

“And now?” I ask, determined to bring us back to the present. “Do you still live a life of adventure?”

“My high-seas days are over, but I’d say tonight has the potential for excitement.” He looks directly into the camera. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m documenting, I can’t interfere—it’s not my story.” I’m blushing behind the camera. This time, I’m sure he notices.

And I’m right, because he approaches and gently pushes the camera away from my face. “This is totally your story.”

I look into his brown eyes. Out here on the street, they’re less dazzling but more gentle and warm and inviting. They embody him. We continue walking.

Suddenly he stops short. “This is it …”

Our arrival catches both of us by surprise.

Kareem pushes open the door, holding it for me. I step into a dark labyrinth of fluttering candles, shadowy nooks. A flamenco band plays somewhere. Wine bottles line the walls and create partitions between tables. I put my camera back in my purse and let myself breathe it all in; there’s no point in trying to film because there isn’t enough light. A host shows us to our table—a booth toward the back, partially hidden by velvet curtains that can be undone to shroud the space entirely. A waiter quickly arrives with menus, explains the three-course fondue meal, and leaves.

“I guess this place is kind of over the top, huh?” Kareem asks.

I smile back. “It’s very film noir. All we need is a fog machine and a dame with a gun and checkered past.”

Kareem laughs. “Wait. That’s not you?”

“You never can tell.”

His eyes narrow; he strokes his goatee. “So you’re not actually this sweet girl who lives in the suburbs. You have a whole double life where you’re carrying on in a nefarious way …”

I totally get into the act. I love that I feel comfortable enough to do it. “I’m not as simple as you might think.”

Kareem shakes his head. “Simple is never a word I’d used to describe you.” He smiles, then reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.

I’m frozen. But I don’t want to move. I stare at the candle between us, feeling as if the flame has leapt inside me. I know I’m blushing, but I don’t care about that, either. Kareem holds my hand tighter. I bite the inside of my lower lip.

When the waiter arrives to take our order, I reluctantly pull my hand away.

“Let’s go for the works,” Kareem suggests, leaning back.

“Sounds good.”

Then Kareem asks me what I want to drink. “A glass of red, maybe? I’ll have a glass of the house Bordeaux.” He’s talking about wine, studying the wine list as if this is something he always does. This is … unexpected. I’ve only tried a drop of alcohol once in my life at Violet’s house, but the guilt left a bitter taste in my mouth that lasts to this day. Then I remember: he’s twenty-one. He’s allowed to do this. But that still leaves the question: Why is he doing it?

“I never … I don’t … really drink,” I sputter. “There was one time … Also, you may be twenty-one, but I’m not …”

Kareem smiles. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be corrupting you on our first date. Seriously, no worries. And no pressure. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner once in a while, that’s all.”

I’m still at a loss. “But …”

“Why am I drinking in the first place?” Kareem raises his eyebrows.

I nod several times. “Does your mom know?”

“Of course. I had my first sip with my parents.”

My mouth drops open. The stars are misaligned. This is not normal, not for a desi Muslim kid. “But aren’t your parents …? I mean, I heard your mom talking to my mom about going to the mosque and—”

His laugh stops me. “They’re not sitting around getting wasted, denying the existence of God or anything. My dad considers himself a believer. But he also believes in enjoying a glass of wine now and again.”

I’m too dumbstruck to think of anything else to say. My own parents aren’t exactly the fire-and-brimstone types, but they’ve never had a drink. Of that I’m certain. Guilt plows into me. They always take me to the mosque on important holidays; they fast during Ramadan; they sometimes close their office to attend Friday afternoon prayers. I’m wracked with guilt as the waiter sets a wineglass in front of Kareem, then pours a small splash from the bottle.

Kareem lifts the glass by the stem, swirling the dark purplish-red liquid into a little tempest. He tilts the rim to his nose and inhales deeply, then puts the glass back down on the table.

“It needs to open up a bit,” he says to the waiter, who seems to understand whatever this means. The waiter leaves us.

I am staring at him, not sure what to make of his expertise, but envious of it. I want to be worldly and sophisticated.

“Maya, relax. It’s not like I eat pork.”