Caged Nightingale

63-Saara

We take a black cab to Harrow Road. In the warm evening light, the glow of the summer still lingers. I take Atif's arm and maneuver him across the road to one of my favourite restaurants Bahesht. Atif raises his eyebrows when we enter, taking in the practical lined chairs and tables. I know what he's thinking and grin at him. "Don't judge a book by its cover." With the exposed brickwork, strange paintings in the alcoves and leather hides stretched out and hung across the ceiling, I know it has a funny Persian style, that doesn't quite hit charming.   The earthy tones are still quirky and reminiscent of Turkish interiors but all that will fade into the background when he tries the food.  It is sublime!  There are a few families scattered about and a group of lads sat around another table.  The overall effect is welcoming. Everyone seems  engaged in animated laughter and chatter and  busy sharing platters of food and drink amongst a hive of activity
The meat is succulent, sweet and the rice fragrant. The sauces refreshing and tangy. I tell Atif about my uni days, my family and even about my work. He listens avidly laughing and enjoying my funny and ironic anecdotes. He doesn't share his own stories the way you usually do in a conversation.  I pause and look at him realising I've been doing most of the talking. Atif looks relaxed sitting back in his chair.
'I can't move!' He says and gives me a sideways glance. 'You look like you could eat more!' he grins at me teasingly.
'Of course, everyone knows that you have a seperate stomach for desert!' I say and laugh.
He leans forward and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear.  His touch is so soft and gentle and the gesture so unexpected that I feel my heart skip a beat.
I thought it would be different, being back here would change the way we were together.  Perhaps the banter and connection we had was directly related to our bizarre circumstances.  I thought that it would  be different when  we got back. That we would return to our previous selves.  Atif and I seem to have changed irrevocably.
We ride the cab back in silence. Neither of us speaking, instead our fingers are twined and I lean into his shoulder and breath in his aftershave.
It's a mild evening. Atif gives me a questioning look as we stop in the suburbs, on a sleepy  street, lined with ancient elm trees. I take his hand and we walk up to a grand red brick apartment building. The Victorian facade is stunning. It has an auster charm, that can't help but make it more endearing. With arched lead lattice windows and iron grates for mock balconies, it still manages to make an impression in this part of Chelsea. We walk up the path surrounded by a lush manicured lawn that has recently been cut. The shadows of the lawn mower's lanes are visible even in the relative darkness.
I press in the security code -half expecting it not to work. The gentle clicking  signals the release and we slip inside, to the lobby, which us empty.
'Wait here' I say and move to one of the sets of doors neatly tucked away behind a grand set of carpeted stairs.
I return a few minutes later from the building manager's office with a set of keys. We ride the elevator up to the seventh floor.
I begin to fidget and notice I'm biting my lip. Suddenly nervous, I sneak a peak at Atif from the corner of my eye. He looks relaxed, with his arm casually tucked into his coat pockets.
Perhaps I'm worrying about nothing.
I watch the number's click on the small LED panel, my heart racing the closer we get to my floor. I should feel a sense of triumph, but instead the anxiety is bubbling away inside of me.
As the elevator doors slide open,  I step forward, aware of atif's curiousity. The lights on the floor come on immediately, their sensors triggered by our presence. There are only 2 apartments on each floor. Mine is the one on the right.
"Lucky number 13!" Atif laughs behind me, reaching up to touch the metal numerals on the door.
I snigger and turn the handle, aware that I'm holding my breath.
The door slides open slowly. Then nothing. Eveything is exactly the way that I left it.
But i see everything differently. The Chesterfield sofa is cold and stiff, the curtains seem muted, the coffee table with its books are so pedestrian, I feel almost embarrassed. Atif looks around, taking it all in. The study full of Conrad furnicture, which now looks like something from a John Lewis Magazine, is just lame. It all looks. . . ., just  unremarkable. Tidy and neat, but bland. He looks at it all passively, like someone who has come to view a property. 
He picks up a silver guilded photo framed picture of asim and me in Venice. Its one of those mid-shots, where you are caught off guard, in between posing for a shot. We are both laughing hysterically at something. I'm leaning forward, my hand raised to my mouth coving my laugh and Asim's leaning away from me, clutching his side, as if he's about to roll onto the floor from laughter. Its  a good picture, probably one of the best of us together. My mother picked it up once and said it looked like a RayBans advertisement shot. She was right. But I liked it because it was fun, even though it was an imperfect shot, it captured us perfectly. Every time I look at that picture it makes me smile. 
I look at Atif holding the frame and realise, all this time I've been afraid of moving on, leaving Asim behind, but I never will -because Asim made me happy and we grew together. I am the person I am today because of my time with him. He will always be in my heart. Moving on doesn't mean letting go. I look at Atif now and know that he has also become a part of me. I have changed for the better again- because of him. I've learned to trust again, to smile again and to let myself love again without feeling like I'm betraying Asim. 
I swallow the lump in my throat and leave Atif to look around, whilst I do a quick scan of the other rooms myself.
In the lounge, I find him stood looking up at my Ad Reinhardt block painting. He raises his eyebrows as he turns to me. I smile back sheepishly, his version in navy and blue is better, mine, which had seemed illuminscent at the time asim bought it, now just looks garish and wild. Just like the hodge podge furnishings in here.
'Asim bought it me.' I say lamely and turn away quickly, not wanting him to see the fake bravado in my face. Asim could never have known i would meet a man on the other side of the world who would have the same print- that I loved so much. That one day we would meet and he would awaken me again and make me his, after asim was gone. Serendipity!
In the daylight the rooms look airy and welcoming, but in the relative darkness they feel odd.
It looks familiar, but different. I no longer feel the comfort and reassurance of being home. There was a time when I used to love the feeling of being able to lock myself away from the big, wide world. This was my own  space.
How many times did i dream of being back? long for it? But it's an anti-climax,  because it doesn't feel like home any more, I realise. It feels like a place I've outgrown.
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So sorry for the late chapter guys x