The Mismatch

by Sara Jafari

  “It feels too convenient to believe in a God.” He shrugged.

  Soraya began walking, moving away from the painting and towards another exhibit, one that she hoped was less morbid. Of all the people to be seeing, she thought, she had to pick an atheist.

  She felt his warm hand close around hers then, which made her stop.

  “Are you annoyed at me?” He looked like he was repressing laughter. Even their hands touching was enough to make her hyperaware of her body in a way she had never been before. It was dizzying and embarrassing.

  “No,” she said quickly.

  He moved his hand to lift her chin, tilting her face upwards so he could see her more clearly. She imagined how they must look to outsiders. His muscles strained beneath his Fred Perry jacket, whereas she wore an oversize vintage wool coat and dark lipstick. They didn’t match; she was podgy in places he was taut. He was white, fully British, whereas she was Middle Eastern and English, and most of the time confused about what that meant. And yet with him this close, she wanted to kiss him, no matter what it looked like from the outside.

  He leant in closer, his breath warm on her face.

  “Promise?”

  All she had to do was move an inch and they could quite easily be kissing.

  “Promise.”

  He looked like he was about to close his eyes, so sure they would of course kiss that she moved away.

  “I’m dying for a coffee, shall we go?” she called over her shoulder, leading the way.

  Another day, another round of chai. Except in Neda’s case she needed something a lot stronger. She had an exam at the end of the month and had been in the lab since 6:00 a.m. The bags under her eyes were pulling her to the ground. After her melancholy moment, she concluded her dad’s snoring all night was simply annoying. And after waking up so early, she needed an endless supply of strong coffee.

  While her friends popped sugar cubes in their mouths before taking leisurely sips of chai, Neda swallowed bitter espresso.

  Hossein sat by her side but seemed to be avoiding looking at her. He wasn’t as chatty as usual. Instead he was tearing bits off a newspaper and rolling them up. It was like he wasn’t aware of what he was doing and the mess he was making.

  Neda sat very straight on the wooden chair, half in conversation with her friends and half willing Hossein to say something, anything.

  It was an excruciating couple of minutes before finally he presented her with a folded piece of paper. She looked up at him and there was a very small smile on his mouth. His large brown eyes, however, were sad, perhaps even scared.

  “Hossein, where are the shirini?” his friend asked.

  “Oh!” he said, theatrically hitting his forehead with his hand. “I forgot to collect them.” He turned to Neda. “I’ll be back.” They were sitting upstairs and he walked down to the café counter on the ground floor. He wore his long-sleeved Adidas T-shirt, sleeves pulled down to cover his hands, something Neda herself did when she felt self-conscious.

  Her friends were chatting cluelessly, giggling at the jokes the men made, some of them arguing with each other. One friend believed women were better than men and often liked to demonstrate this in conversation.

  “Men are stronger, you cannot deny that, azizam,” one young man was saying.

  “Oh, really?” her friend began, drawing breath. “Why is it then that we are working in a laboratory, will go on to make medical discoveries, while you are…what? Playing with a ball outside? Studying people kicking a football?” There was a ripple of laughter, and Neda had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

  “If a woman was running the country, you’d see, we would be modern and care about those less fortunate than ourselves. Men can’t multitask. Look at the Shah…”

  This caused a debate between the group over the government, no longer dividing according to their sex but following the opinions of their respective classes and adherence to religion.

  Neda suddenly remembered the folded piece of paper in her hand. She opened it up, and written in red pen were the words:

  Dear Neda, will you marry me?

  Shanauz noticed her sitting very still, staring at the paper with all the weight it carried.

  “What is it?” she asked, taking it from her friend’s hand. When she read the words she yelled in surprise. People turned to look at them. “Sorry, sorry, it’s nothing.” She scooted closer to Neda and whispered, “What did you say back?”

  “He went to get shirini from downstairs, I haven’t been able to say anything!”

  Shanauz clapped her hands together. “I knew it—I just knew it! I always get these things right.” In that moment she looked like the Cheshire Cat, her joy greater than her friend’s.

  Though Neda was pleased, her heart seemed to beat too quickly, and she thought there must be a mistake. He was so beautiful that she couldn’t believe he felt the same way about her. Remembering how nervous Hossein had been, though, made her feel powerful and important. Her response mattered to him. She mattered to him.

  She knew she must marry eventually, and she wanted it to be to Hossein, whom she found unbelievably attractive and intriguing. She didn’t think he’d ever not surprise and amaze her.

  When he came back to the table with a box in his hand, his friends surrounded him, keen to get a sugary pastry to go with their tea. He peeked up at Neda across the table and she smiled at him, nodding slightly. He smiled back, understanding what this meant.

  Later, when he had the chance to sit next to her, they discussed how he had to ask her dad first, before anything could be done. She knew her maman would jump at the idea of her marrying Hossein; it didn’t matter who the suitor was as long as it meant one less child to feed at home. Not for the first time Neda wished her own mother cared more about her, wondered what that would feel like.

  “Of course I will ask him. I just can’t believe you said yes,” Hossein told her, the color returning to his face. He gripped his curly hair in both hands, adrenaline running high.

  “Why do you think so poorly of yourself?”

  “I see men looking at you, Neda, I’m not stupid…I am a very lucky man though.”

  Men did look at her, but Neda thought it was because she wore a hijab. That said, she knew she was attractive, she wouldn’t deny it. She always thought it strange when women pretended they weren’t aware of their own beauty.

  “Why, Hossein, I am lucky too,” she told him.

  For dark hair, leave on for up to ten minutes.

  Soraya had left the bleaching cream on her arms for fifteen and her skin was beginning to tingle. She pushed past it. They’re thinking of white people hair.

  “You’re going all out, aren’t you?” Oliver said.

  She applied the light pink hair removal cream above her lip, her tweezers ready in one hand. She was leaning into the bathroom mirror. “It’ll all probably grow back in like an hour,” Soraya said with a sigh.

  She stretched over the sink towards the mirror and plucked from her chin the stubborn black hairs that seemed to return daily.

  She could see Oliver looking at her reflection. “Our friendship really has reached new lows if I’m now OK with you watching me pluck my chin hair,” Soraya said.

  He sat on the closed toilet seat and crossed his legs. He had on his graduation suit styled down with a turtleneck underneath, and despite the backdrop not being overly glamorous, she still resisted an urge to take a photograph of him. He looked like he belonged in a Kooples advert with the caption “Oliver has been with himself for the last twenty-one years, and is loving it.”

  Their bathroom was minimally decorated, the blue walls matching the navy tiles on the floor. The toilet was also blue. It was not quite the vibe Soraya and Oliver were going for. But overall their flat was decent, despite some of its more quirky features.

&nbs
p; “I’m just strengthening our friendship, you know, we need to see each other at our best and our worst.” He had his phone in his hand, and a small catlike smile on his face.

  “What?”

  On his phone was a picture of three men posing nude with their hands covering their genitals. In the background was a wall full of pictures of women in lingerie and swimwear, presumably taken out of the kind of magazine Soraya hated. She didn’t understand why Oliver was showing her such a crass photo until her gaze fell on one of the men’s faces. Magnus Evans looked back at her. The image had been posted last night.

  Soraya’s jaw dropped, and in the process a small clump of Veet cream fell into her mouth. She spat it out and quickly rinsed her mouth.

  “Symbolic,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Oliver didn’t seem to notice what had happened. He continued swiping through his phone.

  “You know, he reminds me a bit of Terry.”

  “Terry? As in the guy who once sent me an unsolicited dick pic? That Terry?”

  Among the boys Soraya had almost kissed was Terry. He was the “mature” twenty-three-year-old student that she’d had an unsuccessful back-and-forth with online in third year. He was too forward, and attempted to kiss her randomly in the library, so she eventually blocked his number and avoided him on campus.

  “Yeah, he has similar qualities,” Oliver mused. “Maybe you’re developing a taste for lads? Maybe lads are your type?”

  “Magnus isn’t my type,” she said slowly. “Anyway, I’d rather not talk about Terry, I still feel scarred by that picture.”

  “It was so red,” Oliver said.

  Soraya shuddered. “Moving on…”

  “So what are your plans for tonight, just hair removal?” he asked.

  “Pretty much. I might put on a face mask too.”

  “Well, the offer to come to Bjork’s house with me still stands,” he said, not meaning it. She got the feeling Oliver didn’t want her to meet his other friends, didn’t want to mix them together. She could never understand why, but in light of seeing pictures of their escapades (weekends away in Coventry on coke) she didn’t care enough to press the matter. This other friendship group consisted of rich “creatives” who were funded by their parents to go to coffee shops with their MacBooks and focus on their art, which mostly meant scrolling though Tumblr.

  “You know my horoscope says change is going to come this week,” he said. Oliver had downloaded Astrology Zone to his phone and was persistent in trying to get Soraya into it too.

  “Hmm. Have you spoken to Charlie at all?”

  Beyond his infidelity, Charlie was undeserving of Oliver anyway, white in both skin color and personality, but it was hard to say that to Oliver without sounding like a biased best friend.

  “No,” he said, firmly moving on. “Your horoscope says tonight you will understand a lover a bit better.” He had an amused expression on his face.

  She tried to pay little attention to what he was saying because she was lying to him. She never lied to Oliver. She didn’t even know why she had lied. She’d had every intention of telling him Magnus was coming over, but when he said he wasn’t going to be in had reconsidered.

  She didn’t want to have to explain why she was seeing Magnus again. Oliver still thought it was a one-off date. She didn’t want to be teased for trying to have “kissing practice” with the biggest player at their university, or be told that going on more than one date was dangerous.

  She already felt guilty for possibly being the worst Muslim ever, and didn’t need Oliver adding to her perpetual worries. It wasn’t as if she saw a future with Magnus, or even wanted one with him, even if he wasn’t a fuck boy; they were too different. How could she ever bring him home to her family? An atheist rugby player who posted almost-naked photos of himself online. The thought was as unimaginable as it was ridiculous. She knew she would never marry a man like him, so her intentions from the start in the eyes of God were not good. If she saw a future with Magnus, saw something beyond a few meetings, at least she could justify what she was doing to herself, if not to God.

  And yet when Magnus messaged her she couldn’t help but invite him over.

  She stared at herself in the mirror, looking ridiculous and barely resisting the intense urge to scratch her arms.

  Using the mini plastic spatula, she scraped the bleach off her arms, skin tingling in relief with each swipe. It was ceremonial, really, the shedding of her roots to conform to Western standards.

  * * *

  —

  “So, this is your room,” Magnus said, walking into her bedroom.

  They planned to watch her favorite Ghibli movies, My Neighbor Totoro and The Cat Returns. Soraya trailed behind him. When she’d first opened the door to let him in she found herself momentarily speechless, which made her want to slap herself. She reminded herself repeatedly that he was a lad. Tried to remember the awful pictures of him in her brain. And yet now, as she walked behind him, her gaze fell to his bottom, the sight of which rendered her speechless. His shorts were tight across his bum, and through the material she could make out the definition of his thighs. He wore a navy Goldsmiths hoodie; on the top left-hand side of the chest it bore his name, and the university crest—an open book atop a leopard.

  Seeing the room through his eyes, she was sure he’d think it was childish. Her bedspread was floral and pink, her lamp pink gingham, and a Hello Kitty cushion was propped up against her pillows. Why did everything look so pink all of a sudden?

  Her sketchbook was on her desk. She saw his gaze linger on it.

  “Can I?” he asked, lifting it up before she had the chance to answer.

  “Sure,” she said pointlessly. She hadn’t thought he’d want to look through her belongings. When she noticed her diary left on the bedside table, her heart suddenly quickened.

  “Are you sure I won’t find any drawings of me in here?” he said, smirking.

  “God, you have such a big head,” she said, her voice flat, concern focused elsewhere. She walked backwards, retrieved the diary unobserved, and slipped it under her pillow. All while he was facing her desk, hand on the sketchbook cover.

  “I’m merely asking,” he said. He flicked through the book while she stood there, one arm now wrapped around her stomach. She wished he would say something, anything.

  “You’re crazy talented. You know that, right?”

  She squeezed herself tighter, grimacing, before taking the sketchbook from him and throwing it onto her bed. “Do you want a drink?”

  He pulled her towards him and bent his head to meet hers, drawing her into a kiss. The whole movement was so natural and swift that she didn’t have time to think about what was happening. As his lips touched hers she became breathless.

  This was all so normal to him, and completely alien to her. The urge to move her body closer to his was strong, but so too was the desire to move away.

  And for the first time in her life she wanted to know what a man looked like with no clothes on. She wanted to know what Magnus looked like with no clothes on. And if she wanted to, she could probably see him undressed tonight.

  All her life she had been taught to resist men; it went against her entire upbringing to enjoy his company. Men had the ability to ruin lives. But when he pressed his body to hers all such thoughts died away. Her body responded by pressing back against his. His hand found her behind, which made her laugh. Soraya was sure this was not the reaction she was meant to have, but Magnus smiled against her lips.

  “I’ll get the wine,” she said, keen for an escape.

  She wasn’t sure if this was a terrible idea. Maybe they should have just watched the films in the living room. What stopped her from doing that was the thought that Oliver might sense Magnus had been here.

  In the kitchen, Soraya inspected the wine Magnus had brought, no
t that she knew much about wine. It was red. She poured them each a glass although there was only one wineglass, which Oliver had accidentally stolen from the pub around the corner. They had been drinking in the smoking area when he had seen someone he’d had a short fling with. Not wanting to have an awkward interaction, he and Soraya had walked quickly back to their flat, and it was only when they were home that he realized he had taken his glass with him.

  She returned to her room to find Magnus sprawled across her bed, perfectly at home. She handed him the wineglass and she drank from a mug.

  “Classy,” Magnus commented as he took a large gulp.

  She brought her laptop over to the bed.

  “I saw the photo you posted,” she said, sensing a need to fill the silence.

  He pressed his lips together to stop himself from smiling. “Did you like it?” he said, a glint in his eye.

  “What were you guys even doing?”

  “It was a laugh,” he said, leaning forward. “What, you don’t take naked photos?”

  “I would literally be killed if I did that. Not that I’d want to.”

  “By who?”

  “My parents…”

  “Oh, they’re strict?”

  “Muslim. Same thing.”

  There was a short silence before he said, “Where are you from again?”

  Soraya gave him a look. It was curious, she thought, how much debate there constantly was online about asking people where they were from, whereas immigrants happily asked each other. It wasn’t rude or suggestive to them, simply a question. She got the feeling Magnus was asking in this vein, despite being a white man.

  “I mean, where are your family from?” he amended.

  “Where do you think?”

  “Well, you look a bit like Cleopatra with your eyeliner, fringe, and cheekbones. It’s one of the reasons I noticed you in lectures actually.”

  Soraya grimaced, inwardly begging him to stop.

  “Egyptian?” he guessed.

  She snorted. “No, Iranian.”