Flustered, I finally fished my key card from my bag, swiped it, and pushed the door open. Feeling slightly guilty, I invited Musa inside, then stuck my head back out into the hallway, scanning left and right like a thief, terrified someone might see.
The strangest part was this: I wasn't usually shy around guys, and I didn't think Musa and I had any "special" relationship. Yet, every interaction felt like it required secrecy and hiding. And this "hiding" wasn't the first time.
From the start, he'd gotten my number quietly through Ayub. We chatted easily over calls and texts, but at school, he became formal and distant. In public, he always spoke softly and kept his distance. Yet now, he was standing alone outside my hotel suite.
Somehow, our seemingly ordinary exchanges had morphed into an "underground activity." And frustratingly, I couldn't see another way.
I poured Musa a glass of lemon water. He nodded thanks, maintaining his gentlemanly demeanor, polite and perfectly proper.
"This is Iftar from the mosque. Saw you faint in class from hunger, so I brought you some." He handed me a large food container.
My heart warmed with gratitude. Eagerly, I opened the stacked containers. Inside were generous portions of beef, lamb chops, and an array of brightly colored fruits and vegetables. I was stunned. "The mosque is this generous? I heard Iftar is free, but this lavish? Especially these fruits and veggies – they're expensive here in the desert!"
Musa paused, looking slightly caught out, but quickly composed himself. He nodded casually. "Yes. We're rich here."
My jaw nearly dropped. Such a blatantly "rich guy" statement, delivered so matter-of-factly, sounded utterly natural!
Maybe I was just naive. Shaking off my surprise, I asked, "Have you eaten?"
He'd rushed here right after breaking his fast; he probably hadn't had time.
Sure enough, Musa shook his head. "Not yet. Just had a few sweets and water. I'll grab something after dropping this off." He stood up to leave.
"No, no!" A sudden wave of reluctance washed over me. "Stay and eat with me! You brought me food after fasting all day. Even if you eat more later, have something now? Please?"
The words escaped before I could stop them. Musa had mentioned his lack of experience with women. Was this invitation awkward for him?
Musa did hesitate, falling silent. Just as I thought he'd make an excuse, he smiled gently. "Alright."
Delighted, I jumped up and headed to the kitchenette for chopsticks. Grabbing two pairs, I handed one to Musa without really looking at his expression, then turned back to fill a kettle.
When I returned with the hot water, I found Musa sitting very still, his expression intensely serious. He was staring at the chopsticks in his hand, trying to figure out how to hold them correctly.
"Why aren't you eating?" My hunger-addled brain was slow today; I hadn't grasped the reason for his struggle.
He sat up a little straighter, offering only half the reason. "I heard in China, it's impolite to start eating before everyone is seated."
I was surprised. "You know that?" Then, formally: "You're right! It's about respect."
He smiled and nodded. Then, fiddling with the sticks, he finally admitted, "And also... I... I don't really know how to use these."
I smacked my forehead! How could I forget foreigners struggle with chopsticks? "Wait, I'll get you a fork and knife."
"No, no need." He stopped me quickly. Seeing my confusion, he added with a hint of a smile, "I saw Chinese people using chopsticks at Dubai Mall once. Looked interesting. Could you... teach me?"
I pressed my lips together, uncertain. "Teach you... chopsticks?" It felt strange, like teaching a child to eat.
"Yes." Musa nodded earnestly. His golden-brown eyes were clear and bright, almost liquid. Seeing my hesitation, his gaze wavered slightly. "Inconvenient?"
"No! Not at all!" Those eyes were impossible to refuse. I picked up my own chopsticks. "Watch. Hold them like this."
He leaned forward slightly, observing my grip intently. Then, mimicking my movements, he carefully positioned each finger on the chopsticks, his focus absolute.
His gaze fixed on my fingers made my cheeks warm. But seeing his complete absorption, my awkwardness faded. I let him look.
"Then what?" He held the position and looked up.
"Move your index finger, middle finger, and thumb joint, like this." I demonstrated. Musa tried to copy the motion, but his grip faltered. One chopstick slipped and clattered to the floor.
I stood up, fetched a new pair from the kitchen, and handed it to him. "Don't force it. Technique matters. Relax, like this."
My earlier shyness gone, I naturally reached out and guided his fingers into position.
The warmth of his hand seeped into my palm. I distinctly felt Musa's arm stiffen, even tremble slightly.
Assuming it was just chopstick difficulty, I remained focused, my small hand guiding his large one.
After a few attempts, I felt the tension ease from his muscles, his grip softening. Guiding his hand, we maneuvered the chopsticks together, picking up a piece of beef and lifting it towards his mouth.
Only when he tentatively began chewing did the intimacy of the act hit me. Holding his hand, moving it step by step, the warmth spreading... it accelerated my heartbeat.
I quickly pulled my hand away, looking down in silence.
If I felt flustered, Musa, a devout Muslim with minimal female contact, must be mortified! He'd probably think me terribly rude and avoid me now.
The thought brought an unexpected pang of disappointment and gloom. My brow furrowed.
The silence lasted only moments. Unexpectedly, I heard Musa ask calmly, as if nothing happened, "Cece, what's wrong?"
Startled, I looked up. His expression was normal. "Um... nothing..." If he wasn't bothered, what could I say? My cheeks flushed as I stood up, avoiding his eyes. "I'll get you that fork and knife."
"Alright." This time, he didn't refuse. His tone held no trace of anger.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe white-robed Muslims weren't as rigidly conservative as I'd thought?
Using familiar utensils made the meal smoother. We tacitly ignored the earlier incident, eating mostly in silence, exchanging only occasional small talk.
But a new problem arose.
Musa had only brought enough food for one person. For two people who'd fasted all day, it was barely a snack. How had I not realized?
Or... had some part of me known, but wanted him to stay anyway?
Even now, despite the awkwardness, I was reluctant to see him leave. Maybe... it was guilt over him bringing me medicine and now food? I tried to rationalize it.
After a moment's thought, I ventured, "I have lots of ingredients in the fridge. I could cook some Chinese dishes? We could eat together?"