019 A First Moment Alone, Strictly Observing Propriety

I fumbled with my bag, retrieved my room key, and swiped it against the lock. With a nervous flutter in my chest, I invited Musa inside, then poked my head out into the hallway, peering around like a thief to ensure no one had spotted us.

This was the strangest part of it all. I am not the type to act coy around men, nor do I consider my relationship with Musa to be of any great consequence, yet I always find myself needing to skulk about in the shadows to avoid prying eyes. And this, today, was not the first time.

From the very beginning, he had quietly obtained my number from Ayoub. We could converse with ease over phone calls and text messages, yet at school, he would become cold and formal. Every time he spoke to me in public, he lowered his voice and kept his distance; and yet, here he was, alone in my hotel suite.

I don’t know when our seemingly ordinary interactions evolved into this clandestine affair. But beyond this, I found I had no other choice.

I poured Musa a glass of lemonade. He nodded his thanks, maintaining his gentlemanly composure—polite, measured, and entirely respectful.

"This is an Iftar meal from the mosque. I saw you faint from hunger in class, so I brought you a portion," he said, handing me a large food container.

A wave of happiness washed over me. I took it expectantly and opened the tiered container. Looking at the beef, lamb chops, and the vibrant array of fruits and vegetables, I couldn't help but feel deeply surprised. "Is the mosque that generous? I heard Iftar meals were provided for free, but surely not this lavishly? Especially the produce—it's so expensive in a desert city like Dubai."

Musa froze, looking momentarily embarrassed as if he had been seen through, but he quickly regained his composure and nodded faintly. "Yes, well, we are just that wealthy here."

I looked up in astonishment, wondering if I had heard him correctly. It was such a blunt, ostentatious statement, yet coming from him so nonchalantly, it felt strangely natural.

Perhaps I was just being provincial, and it wasn't anything unusual after all. I collected my thoughts and asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

He had come straight to my room right after breaking his fast, so I figured he hadn't had the time.

As expected, Musa shook his head. "Not yet. I only tasted a few sweets and drank a couple of bottles of water. I'll go eat once I've delivered this to you." With that, he rose to leave.

"No, no need," I said, a sudden sense of reluctance welling up in me. I reached out to stop him. "Stay and eat together. You went to all the trouble of bringing me this Iftar meal, and you haven't eaten all day. Even if you're planning a late dinner, you should at least have something to tide you over, right?"

The words were barely out of my mouth before I felt a twinge of regret. Musa had once mentioned that he had almost no experience interacting with women; would my impulsive invitation make him feel uncomfortable?

Musa was visibly stunned and fell silent. Just as I thought he was about to find an excuse to decline, he broke into a smile and replied gently, "Very well."

I jumped up, delighted, and ran to the kitchen to grab some chopsticks. Realizing there were two of us, I pulled out two pairs, handed one to Musa without checking his expression, and turned back to the kitchen to pour a kettle of hot water.

When I returned, I found Musa looking serious and focused, his eyes fixed intently on the chopsticks as he struggled to move them together.

"Why aren't you eating?" Perhaps I really was lightheaded from hunger today, as my brain was moving slowly; I hadn't realized why he was fumbling with the utensils.

He straightened his posture slightly and gave me half the reason: "I heard that in your country, everyone must be at the table before one can start eating, otherwise it is considered impolite."

A surge of pleasant surprise filled me. "You've heard of that? That's quite impressive."

He smiled and nodded. After a pause, he began fiddling with the sticks again, looking troubled. "And also... I... I'm not very good at using these."

I slapped my forehead—how could I have forgotten that foreigners often struggle with chopsticks? I hurried to say, "Wait a moment, I'll get you a knife and fork."

"No, that's not necessary." He stopped me with a hint of urgency. Seeing my puzzled expression, he added with a playful glint in his eyes, "I saw some Chinese people eating with chopsticks at Dubai Mall and thought it was fascinating. Could you teach me how to use them today?"