“Hookah or Hooker?” #40

His name is Mohammed, but we’ll call him Habib for these purposes.  When he pulls up in his Silver Mercedes, my mother is telling me that I should let him pay for everything.  “He makes money, you don’t.  And don’t, you know, hmm hmm hmm.”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“You know, hmm hmm hmm,” she says while becoming animated with her hands.

I’m getting embarrassed.  I don’t want my parents talking to me about sex.  And, what does she think; I’m someone who gives it up on the first night?  Okay, well maybe I was before, but that’s not my modus operandi any more.  I’m looking for substance.  And I don’t like her insinuating I’m a slut.  Meanwhile my father is standing at the window looking at his car.

“How did he tell you he was Muslim?” he asks me without looking at me.

“He kind of showed me his floor plans to blow up JFK with his camels and I read between the lines.”

“That’s very funny, Myra.  Just wait til his parents find out he’s dating you,” he warns.

I don’t want this guy coming in and meeting them, so I step out quickly to usher us both back to his car.  I’m looking for long term here, which means I’ve got to get him to fall for me and THEN find out that my parents are crazy.  Otherwise I don’t stand a chance.

The hookah bar, with butterflies painted everywhere, is in a strip mall about thirty minutes away.  That’s how Long Island is.  Strip malls everywhere, most containing nothing but franchises of big conglomerates and the occasional few with just one unexpected place.  These are rare gems in today’s America.  I’m so glad it’s dark inside.  It provides for less self-consciousness about how I look.

I feel strangely comfortable with this guy.  We’re sitting on a velvety couch that seems like it came from a second-hand store.  He’s sharp and witty and asks me questions (which I love) yet maintains a sort of reserved respect, as though not expecting anything.  I love this even more.  He asks me what I write about, I take a sip of my appletini and stare at the painted wall for effect, then turn to him and let it roll.  I almost feel like he’s some boy I just met on a camping trip and we’re the last ones at the fire, talking into the night, like two new friends.  He’s kind of reserved, to the point where I wonder if he even likes me.  I’m thinking, how come no one told me that Muslim boys were where it’s at?  This is a whole new world for me, and I’m barely able to listen to what he’s saying, because visions of us living together are racing through my head.  I’m starting to wonder, though, why he’s not trying to move closer or stare longingly at me. 

I get up to go the ladies’ room, where I make sure that eyeliner hasn’t gathered in the corner of my eyes as it usually does, and I think about telling my Mom later about how well this went, but she’ll probably ask me if I hmm hmm hmm-ed, so I decide I won’t say anything.

I walk back towards our little velvet corner of heaven with that sort of I know you’re looking at me and I’m drunk so I’m a model on the catwalk kind of sashay and start talking about something innocuous like jogging, when he suddenly moves in, pulls the entire back of my hair, every flat-ironed strand of it, and kisses me with passion.  Holy moly.  My whole body heats up.

He finishes his cranberry juice.  Because he’s driving.  Or because Muslims don’t drink.  And he drives me home.

As we enter the housing development, he acts weird when I tell him that I don’t usually meet such nice guys as him.  He puts his hand on my thigh.  And before we pull up to my house, he says there’s something he’s wanted to ask me for the last hour.  I’m thinking What, you want to marry me already, and you’re wondering if the religion difference will be a problem, no it won’t, I think we’ll be great together, I don’t have to eat pork around you.

He asks, “Have you ever been in a threesome before?”

“Ha.  No,” I say.  The conversation’s going so fast I don’t have time to be confused.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he continues.

“No.  Why?”

“I don’t know, just asking,” he says.

“Why are you asking me that?” I put forth as we park in front of my house.

He pushes the hair out of my face, and part of me wants to melt.  Part of me fears a cliff at my feet.

“You have very nice curves,” he says.

“No, I just eat a lot of cookies and it all goes to my ass,” I say.

I think how much more wholesome he was in E.R. scrubs.

He continues, seemingly on a mission, “I have a friend with his own law office, my age, nice guy.  The three of us, you know…it could be fun.”

I just look at him.  Then finally say, “I don’t do lawyers.”  And I get out of the car.

I wave goodbye to Wholesome Habib and take a deep breath before entering the house.  Easy come easy go, a short fat food-runner once told me at the restaurant.  I thought it was callous of him then.  But, it’s somehow so true.

I join my family in a Scrabble game at the kitchen table.  My mother’s vocabulary is limited to words like cat, fat, and hat, and my sister’s are ones like Gucci and Prada.  My concoctions are words like asshole, dipshit, and fuckwad, which my father says are not legit, and my mother says, “Oh Ivan, let her have them.”

“There are rules!” he shouts.

“Come on, she’s been through a lot,” my mother pleads. 

“Okay, fine!  Just for this game,” he concedes.

My brother keeps saying things to me like, “How was his kebab?”  Everyone is laughing so hard; my mother has to keep wiping her eyes. 

When I lay down in my bed, Vito is wondering where his Sinatra tune is.  But I’m trying to figure out how it would work.  Two guys and a girl.  What would the two guys do with each other?  This is maybe something I would’ve explored at twenty-three, but not forty.  I’ve got my eyes on the prize.  A guy with substance and silliness.  I’d rather imagine this instead.