Love at First Heist

HER

For Shehnaz Yussef, the best part of the day was not daytime at all.

It was the beginning.

At 04:05, it was the moment she pressed the side of her face against the white fabric of the jaynamaz. The glow of the street lamp snuck in from the window, carving the dips and highs of her bones under a golden hue, similar to the vintage novels' dusted and battered pages on the shelves. She traced the names of her lord on the velvet, quietly smiling in the warmth and safety of her faith.

Her heart at this hour was at peace.

The moment the light from outside disappeared, she rose. Shehnaz brushed the words she traced on the prayer mat, folding it. She looked into the mirror, the cashmere shawl covered the hair, or at least most of it, of the girl staring back.

While she didn't look extraordinary or neither too bad, her eyes matched the darkness of her hair— the same absence of colour. Growing up, it bothered her a lot, that while her mother had dark brown- almost mahogany eyes, her aunt with hazel eyes like the earth, and her cousin that had light blue eyes; sagar, as their grandmother liked to call him lovingly, she was stuck with nothing, literally.

She pursed her lips in distaste, before wearing her contacts.

They were a shade of brown, and she almost looked as though as she had quills of amber flowing in her eyes in the sunlight. And she loved it.

Perhaps it was the arsonist buried in her soul, and she loved the idea of trailing embers in her wake, or perhaps it was that she wanted to be a different person everyday, that being her became the most tiresome thing to be.

When she steps outside, the sky is no longer dark as night, but a glorious indigo. The moon hung towards the west, opposite to the horizon, a longing company to the sun. It reminds her of a flower often, with his own fragrance. While the moon was an Arabian jasmine, the sun reminded her of musk, and sometimes the cinnamon and cardamom of the chai brewing in the kitchen. It blooms over the horizon, golden petals stretching ever outwards into the rich blue.

And in a moment, Shehnaz's hair is cast a shade of sangria, bathed in a rosy glow; she moves her fingers through the air that grows brighter with each passing moment until it becomes a new bold day. It is winter, and she watches her breath, rather warm unlike the cold air, turn to fog too and it is the gentle spring that passed from blood to bone, a deeper part buried in her soul.

Something soft brushes against her ankle, and she smiles in knowingness. It was Arashi bint Asfyander Al Fihriya, and yes, it was a mouthful— but no compromises for such a regal animal.

"Sabah al khair, jaan." Shehnaz says with a smile, scratching her underneath her chin causing the cat to purr. She pours the food in Arashi's plate, hesitating to put any more seeing how Arashi had gained weight. Shehnaz guessed Arashi spent the night outside her windowsill, and her movements had woken the cat up.

"Shehnaz, why're you feeding the stray again? At this rate, it'll never leave!" Rukhsana aunty yells. Shehnaz sheepishly smiles, before rising up. There were, of course, particular things she disliked about the people around her, but the amount of favours they did for her always overweighed them. So, she made a list. Literally.

She had a folder on her phone, enlisting all the little details she liked about these people. She'd hang on to those, look through them when she was about to lose her cool. Similarly, she had a mental list about what she hated about them too. Her mother would tell her that she should've been a farishta instead- the ones on our shoulders that criticised to God.

Shehnaz's first complaint about Rukhsana to God? She hated animals.

Or hated anything, really, the woman could whine about anything all day.

"Assalam Alaykum, aunty," she says, laughing at her disgusted expression when she picks up Arashi.

"Walaykum Assalam, Shehnaz. Here, I brought you something," Shehnaz grinned, seeing the box of sweets.

There it was, the first thing on the list she loved about the woman.

Shehnaz welcomes her inside, the rest of the morning hours are spent away in chai and banter. While Rukhsana mentions the latest gossip in their neighbourhood; something about the apparent son of Ibrahim Sarsilmaz, Shehnaz's precious poet, she intently listens to their conspiracies, occasionally snorting, and laughs as Rukhsana begum makes a face when she refuses to contributing her own theory.

After all, she had no idea who the man, if there is one at all, was.