1.
You know how you just know when someone is watching you?
Shan knew.
She didn't hide it. She must have known he'd noticed. He'd look at her and she didn't look away.
It was okay, he'd decided, even if the interest wasn't there, he was going to go with the flow. After reading about it this way of living, it made sense, going with the flow. It became the maxim after the breakup up with Trinity--who most definitely didn't go with the flow.
So, sure, he may have been interested if another woman hadn't caught his eye. And wow, had she ever. She'd slipped into the class late, first day of the course. He couldn't unglue his eyes from her.
He watched the way she quietly closed the door, hurried to find a seat. Right opposite. Even when she moved fast, there was a grace to her.
The teacher ignored her at first, finished what he was saying. This class wasn't really what he'd expected and he wondered why he'd signed up for it. So far, almost forty minutes in, he hadn't felt the slightest bit stimulated or interested. Until this woman had shown up. This was why he'd signed up. To see at a woman like this. Not really, but yeah. It was a bonus.
"And you are?" The teacher asked.
"Shayla," she said. It was soft, but he heard it. The teacher, either hard of hearing or a jerk, probably the latter, pretended to cock his head like he hadn't heard. "I'm sorry?"
She repeated it.
"And where are you from? Apart from Woolworths? obviously."
"Bangladesh," she said. "And I'm sorry I'm late. The bus was delayed."
Oh dear god, her voice, that accent made his brain turn to mush. He'd always loved the Indian accent, on women anyway. Bangladeshi, too, now that he knew it had the same brain melting cadence. Maybe he liked it even more. But that just could've been because of Shayla.
Everyone milled around during the break and he looked for an in to talk to her. But she took a call. No matter, there was always looking. And being looked at.
2.
It was the second class that they spoke. Only a little bit at first.
"I'm Shayla," she said. Then, "My English isn't very good."
"Your English is fine. How long have you lived here?" Shan asked.
She said ten years but she mostly spoke Bangla at home with her husband and kids.
Husband. Of course. Of course she was married. There was no way she wouldn't be. And here he was, newly single. Well, not newly, but single all the same-- not looking for a rebound romance, but he'd take one. With her. If only she hadn't been married.
The teacher had asked the class to form groups to work on a series of questions together. Typical night school kind of stuff, nothing too demanding. Shayla had looked around the class nervously, maybe we could say, and he'd raised his hand and done a little dance with his fingers. Come over, the fingers had said. She did, joining him and the woman who kept looking at him. Antonella, an Italian woman wearing too much pink, and she'd gone from sitting opposite and looking at Shan in an obvious way, to sitting next to him and looking in an obvious way. Her interest was plain to see. Or maybe she thought the rest of the students were weirdos and he wasn't, which wasn't untrue. Either way, it was fine. The attention was not totally unwanted though he'd prefer it came from Shayla, all day every day.
They worked on the questions and when everyone was done, someone from the group had to read out their answers. Again, real night school stuff. Shan asked Shayla to do it and she refused, looked at him like he'd put her on the worst kind of spot and she wasn't having it at all. Antonella's slow reading was worse, her English was actually not as good as it ought to have been.
"Okay," he said. "Sorry. I'll read it."
He read what they'd come up with together, the thee of them, and she said he read nicely. Shan looked at her to see if it was a genuine compliment or if it was something else. If it was, how would he even know?
And all the time, he kept thinking: Damn it, you have a husband. But go with the flow--what else can you do?
3.
They sat together every class. Antonella the starer on one side, Shayla on the other and Shan, the meat in the sandwich. She was good looking, Antonella, and it wasn't obvious that she was Italian, with her blonde hair, though her heavy accent gave it away. Like I said, she wore a lot of pink, particularly up top. And she still looked at Shan only now she snuck them, but it was still obvious if that makes sense. But he only had eyes for Shayla, really. but since he was going with the flow, no matter what, it was all good.
During break, he made Shayla a cup of tea to pep her up a bit.
"I'm so tired, Shan," she said as she took the Styrofoam cup. He'd loaded it with sugar for some extra energy.
Shan said, "Well, you do a full shift at the supermarket and come here, that's pretty rough."
"It's not just that. I have to get up at five every morning. I need to make breakfast for my husband and children."
"Oh. How old are your kids?"
"One is fifteen, the other is seventeen."
(So she was older than him. A bit. He knew that anyway, this was just "proof.")
"Then they can fix their own breakfast," he said. "And so can your husband. Or, he can make yours."
Because that's what he'd do if he had the chance.
She laughed. But it was more a sigh than a laugh. "You don't understand," she said. "My husband wants a hot breakfast every morning. I have to make roti and curry. He wants fresh food. He can't accept leftovers."
She sounded resigned when she said that. Because she was.
"I see," he said, but he really see. He understood, though: understood that she was tired and miserable. But she accepted it even if he hated it. That's just how it is. You have to accept people's lives as they are even when you don't like it. But all the same, he didn't like it and wished her life was different.
4.
They started leaving class together, He'd get the train and she'd take the bus. They'd walk towards the station and part there. On the way they talked about how weird the teachers were, and the other students, talked about their lives a bit, about philosophy and religion, about going with the flow.
"I think you are very wise, Shan."
If he was, he'd have stayed away from this bewitching woman but wisdom is acquired through bitter experience.
Sometimes they'd stop at the bookstore on the way and have a little browse.
"I love books," she said. "But I don't have time to read any."
"What if I bought you one?"
"I'd try to read it. But maybe I couldn't understand it anyway."
Outside the store, she asked him how come he was single. "Because you're so nice."
He shrugged. "Just waiting for that special someone."
"I know you'll find her, Shan," Shayla said with conviction. "Allah has blessed you."
"Thanks, Allah," said Shan. "It's nice of him to be so inclusive."
He looked at her as they walked. She was so beautiful with her dark skin and almond eyes, hair around her shoulders. He felt blessed by Allah for even having seen her.
When they got the station he watched her walk across the road to the bus depot, watched the way she moved. Woolworths shirt on top, tight jeans on the bottom. No hijab. He read that Bangladeshi women only wear them if they want to. And he was happy about that, because he loved her hair, wanted to touch it, run his fingers through the dark, loose curls.
He wanted her.
