Mathew is leaning on his car, cross-armed.

I am seated inside mine, masked.

A distance of 10 feet, at least.

“I think it’s a myth,” I say.

He nods. “Just like in the movies, no?”

“Somewhat,” I reply. “I don’t need my in-laws to respect me, or consider me to be a friend. They just have to understand that I’m different. They need to stop treating me like a child.”

Mathew wears his mask quickly.

A police car drives by.

A few seconds later the mask is off again.

“Maybe you’re imagining things,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Nah. I know this is real.”

“Or maybe you’re just like her, you know – a little childish.”

“No way,” I protest mutely, and take a deep breath. “It could be a cultural thing. They are all fun and carefree. I’ve always been serious and…”

“…boring,” Mathews quips.

I’m slightly offended, and it shows on my face. But we laugh it off, and I gradually withdraw into a helpless smile. I look at the busy road to my right, lost in my own thoughts.

“Did I tell you that Natasha called?” he says.

“Really?”

Mathew wears the mask again. “I really think we might have some of that spark left in us, because she just went on and on about all those silly days from school and I was like: whoa, hold on a minute, how do you still remember these things? And, why?”

I smile.

The wife comes to my mind.

‘We’ve been married for seven years now. And I don’t have a single memory of us laughing together. Not one.’

“She just went on and on and on,” Mathew says. “Finally, I was like: okay, it’s getting late and we need to hang up, but tell you what - how about we continue this conversation tomorrow at Caribou?”

“Is she coming?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nicely done,” I admit.

“Ain’t it?”

“Good for you, mate,” I reply. “Caribou in Adliya?”

“Yeah.”

“There are seating restrictions, but you could sit outside...”

The banter goes on for a bit, until I realize it’s getting late. We finish up with some outdated jokes and I take off.  A few seconds later, so do my thoughts.

‘Why is it that we don’t have any fond memories?’

I stop at a red light.

‘That’s not true.’

Turning out of Mahooz, I park at an empty dustbowl of a ground. I take out my phone and open the gallery. It is filled with pictures of my daughter. Then I scroll down, to an old folder I haven’t opened in ages. There I find pictures of my wife grinning, laughing, making childish faces, upset, angry, hidden away from the camera, showing off her baby bump, eating noodles and what not.

I smile.

‘There were some good times.’

I sigh.

I think about Mathew and about how he leads conversations. That needs some talent.

‘Maybe I am a boring person.’

                                                                       ***

The road to Juffair has never looked shorter.

My mind is racing with questions:

‘When was the last time you did something to surprise her?’

Me: I called the plumber today, finally.

Wife: What!

‘When was the last time you made her feel special?’

Me: This gravy could use some more salt.

Wife: Your mom does the same thing and you don’t say a word! Why do you keep picking on me?

‘When was the last time you made her laugh?’

Me: Let’s go on a holiday.

Wife: *Bursts out laughing*

This is where I reveal that we never went on our honeymoon after the wedding.

The wife has barely brought this up in any argument.

It has been seven years.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so good about myself.

I reach Juffair, but do not stop in front of the apartment. I go on and take the turn towards the flower shop in the corner – dimly lit, white shelves arrayed with red roses and white lilies and the kinds I wouldn’t want to gift to anyone.

I step out of the car with determination, check if my mask is in place and pull up my gloves. Reaching the entrance of the flower shop, I do the expected: I stop.

There is a price list displayed behind the glass wall.

BD 3/ Red Rose.

‘Really?’ I ask to myself.