FIRST CAME YOUR EYES

HERS

The first wave of the pandemic changed some people's priorities. The second wave got others revising, and on the brink of the third, some were barely starting to notice the cracks in their lives.

Nassim was already ahead in his game. He knew what he didn't want in his life anymore and that being religious didn't make one a Saint. Faith was an everyday apprenticeship that grew with practice. It wasn't enough to say one was a believer. One had to practice his faith. Nassim wanted to erase his misconduct and eliminate the noise. There was nothing he could do to change the past, but he had all the cards in his head to play the game for a better future.

Yasmine took up all his youth. He was fourteen when they met, and he was still in love with her twenty years later.

Her visit to his apartment wasn't anodyne. Nassim found out from his older brother Mehdi she and her husband were expecting.

Nassim had called in sick at work. A man doesn't cry, his father had told him as a child, yet Nassim cried. He howled like a baby craving milk. What was masculinity if one didn't have the power or will to fight for the love he deserved?

Nassim found himself invaded with a subtle folie. Crazy thoughts ran through his mind. Thoughts of murder and suicide, seeing Yasmine marry someone else was one thing. Imagining her touched by another man was another, but having someone else's child was the drop that made his glass topple. Nassim couldn't breathe. His mind was overbooked, and the saturation reached its peak.

The man paced in his apartment like a lion in its cage while repeating she was married and that there was nothing he could do. She was someone else's responsibility and love.

It took some time for him to surface, and when he did, Nassim erased all the ill thoughts that consisted of wishing for some kind of misfortune to occur. His grudge was deep at one point, but he was no longer in that place. The man held on to the last piece of faith within the torment. It wasn't much, but Nassim hoped by practicing to be a good Muslim, he would finish by feeling good and whole again. He desired to be a better man and regain some self-respect to eventually meet the better woman.

But what was better?

What was the definition of a good woman?

His father was a calm man, and his mother was a submissive. If she spoke, it was behind closed doors. When in public, she never contradicted her husband. The model was set; the good wife was quiet and benevolent. She moved in silence and accomplished things without boasting.

Yasmine had those qualities. She was as quiet as her steps. Whether in sneakers or heels, one had to lend an ear to hear her feet. Her voice was calm and poised, at least it was before. She could cook, clean, and sow.

Yet there was something that Nassim couldn't put the finger on that made the man dislike his analysis.

Was it a lover he sought or a housekeeper?

He recognized that his desires sat on the patriarchy's bench.

A quiet wife, a submissive wife, no, he desired someone he could laugh with and have long conversations with, someone who made him forget time. He wanted someone who would understand how wounded he was and would not take advantage of him.

Did such a person exist, and if so, would the person accept his humble situation?

Like many, Nassim scrolled through TikTok and became obsessed with his status and ability to provide. He had the impression he could never be enough for the good women. He wanted to be with someone but felt he didn't have the means to do so without forgetting the constant swaying of his broken heart.

He saw no other solution than to pray for peace and for his hurt to be appeased.

"Ain't that handyman supposed to come by we're like the fifteenth of the month?" Ann said while spying from the window like a person in a bird hide.