Our Three Musketeers gang—the soon-to-be Dr. Lily Moretti, Yusuf, and I—had been friends from childhood, though things had changed when my two best friends started dating. On top of that, we weren’t together in school anymore, and our circles no longer intersected so easily. Still, he was right, it had been a while since we all hung out.
I texted Lily after Yusuf returned to the store.Lil, thinking of you. It’s been so long I forget what you look like. Here’s a pic of me in case you’re having the same problem. I attached a cross-eyed selfie and ended the message withI think your boyfriend misses you too. Let me know when you have time to meet. XX
Yusuf and Lily had been together, on and off, for years. The fact that I wasn’t sure if they were currently dating or not said a lot about how long it had been since the three of us spent time together.
The restaurant was about to close, and when I entered the dining room of Three Sisters, only a few customers remained, finishing their meals. I greeted the familiar faces without breaking stride and entered the kitchen, excited to share my news.
“Marisa said I was a natural at co-producingThe Wrap-Uptoday!” I announced.
“That’s so great, Hanaan,” Fazeela said. She looked pale, and therewere dark smudges under her eyes I hadn’t noticed that morning. “We heard the show. Big J is so funny.” Fazee was sitting on a stool, nursing a glass of water.
“I found memes for him of a mountain-climbing baby,” I said proudly.
Fazeela smiled faintly and shifted in her seat, wincing. Before I could ask if she was all right, Mom sent me back into the dining room to tend to the remaining customers. She hadn’t said a word about my news. I should have stopped off at home first and told Baba; he wouldn’t have been too distracted to congratulate me.
Only three tables were occupied when I returned to the dining room. Imam Abdul Bari and his wife were tucked into the corner booth for their weekly date night. Two other tables were in use by single patrons: a lone white woman with frizzy hair and oversized glasses perched on the end of her nose, and Haneef Uncle, who was addicted to my mother’s chai.
Abdul Bari greeted me with his habitual smile. “How is the world of broadcasting, Sister Hana?”
Abdul Bari was the imam at the local mosque, the Toronto Muslim Assembly. His smiling presence was a great improvement over our previous imam, whom I had nicknamed “the Gorgon” because of his stern demeanour and boring sermons. I hadn’t attended the mosque during the Gorgon’s reign, but Imam Abdul Bari had coaxed me back. In his own way, he was as magnetic as Big J.
“I co-producedThe Wrap-Uptoday,” I said, beaming. I couldn’t stop thinking about Marisa’s praise—You’re a natural.After months of tedious research and busywork, I was finally one step closer to learning more about the production part of my job. Baba wanted me to host my own show one day, but my ambitions were more modest. I lovedresearching stories that meant something to me, then figuring out how to present them in a way that would entice listeners. For me, hosting was secondary. I think that was why podcasting appealed so much. I had complete control and I was free to talk about whatever I liked.
“Mabrook!It is important for young Muslims to tell their stories. Your parents must be so proud,” the Imam said.
His wife, Nalla, noticed my hesitation and squeezed my hand. “Your mother works so hard. I’m sure she’s proud in her own way.”
Nalla looked tired, her face thin. Imam Abdul Bari had never said anything, but everyone knew she wasn’t well. I had watched her grow weaker with every date night, observed the strain on her face when she walked, the slow way she chewed, as if even the act of eating exhausted her. The Imam, always tender with his wife, had become even more solicitous recently.
The restaurant emptied and I locked the front door and began to clean up, wiping tables, stacking chairs, my mind elsewhere. I pulled out my phone. Still no message from StanleyP. Fazeela was right, I was obsessed.
A knock at the door shook me out of my reverie. Mr. Silver Shades—Aydin—stood framed by the entrance.
We’re closed, I mouthed, and made a shooing motion with my hand.
He knocked again, a pleading expression on his face.
I contemplated my options. I could hear laughter from the kitchen, and I knew Mom, Fahim, and Fazeela were in there cleaning up. Besides, Aydin seemed harmless, and I could use the distraction. Plus he had left a massive tip. Maybe he had come back looking for change.
“We don’t make change for abandoned meals,” I said as I opened the door.
Aydin leaned against the door frame, hands in his pockets. “I’m notlooking for change,” he said. I waited for him to tell me why he was there, but he only blinked and said nothing.
I left the door propped open and returned to wiping tables. He followed me inside.
“Do you work at the restaurant every day?” he asked. “It’s a school night.”
I reached for the broom. “I’m twenty-four years old. I have two university degrees and three jobs, if you include having to make small talk with overtippers.”
He half smiled. “You look young. It must be the—” He waved vaguely in the direction of my face. “Where else do you work?”
“Radio Toronto,” I said, and waited for the inevitable blank look.
Instead he surprised me by grinning widely. The expression was so unexpected I stopped to stare. “I love radio,” he said. “Back home in Vancouver, I went to live tapings of some of the local shows. Have you ever been to a live taping?”
“Yes,” I replied, dazed. “A few times.”
Aydin’s grin turned delighted. “My friends call me a vintage nerd, but I don’t care. There’s something about listening to someone talk, the sound of their voice, sharing their personal stories and dreams...”
