Damaged Goods

A gentleman is here to see you Begum Sahiba," Intoned Maria. "Uh-hm," I replied non-committally as I sketched a critical line into the plot sketch. "Calls himself Ammar." The ruler slipped from beneath my fingers at the words, sending the pencil skidding across the paper in a thick, ugly arc- "Ammar?" I sputtered before thinking better of my reaction. "Very well, have him sit in my other office. I'll be up in a minute." Maria left with a murmured assent leaving me silently fuming. To think I'd had a short reprieve before having to inevitably consider his offer. His parent's offer more like, I thought irritably tossing the ruined floor plan in the dustbin, since his-esteemed-self hadn't deigned to accompany them this afternoon. Though to be fair, I mused clicking the door shut behind me, formal marriage proposals traditionally excluded the potential groom out of some sense of propriety that had long been lost to time now. In any case, he was here now. And alone at that. The irony tugged the corners of my lips slightly upwards as I trudged up the stairs to the office I'd reserved for formal meetings. The amusement, however, faded from my face as I walked into the office and beheld the face of my potential future husband. Because Lord, what a pretty face it was. Broad cheekbones over a week's worth of scruff, dark hair smoothed off tan skin and eyes that had to be hazel. I'd have looked closer if they hadn't been perusing me up and down with same frankness that I'd subjected him to. His eyes taking in the maroon pleated trousers and cream silk shirt from this afternoon that I hadn't bothered to change out of. Belatedly I realised that the dupatta casually knotted at my side like a sash would have been more appropriate around my shoulders and arms that my sleeveless shirt bared. Too late for that now I supposed. And God only knew what birds nest my hair resembled. His eyes finally found my face as he slowly stood from the armchair he'd settled into. To his credit, neither of his brows rose at what he beheld. "Assalamualaikum," polite, pleasant, cultured. "I'm Ammar Yasir, you must be Sitaara." His hand rested over his heart, instead of being offered in greeting as many "open-minded" males preferred it these days. Traditional indeed. "Indeed, I am" I replied returning the gesture. "Welcome to my home Ammar." The use of his first name was deliberate. A test. Men usually detested it as being too "forward". So much for open-mindedness. Ammar only smiled, "this is a beautiful office." "Thank you. Please sit" I replied gesturing to chair he'd risen from. Maria had left an assortment of refreshments on the coffee table. Iced coffee, tea and chilled bottles of malt. He'd touched nothing. "Won't you have a drink? Or do you have another preference? " I inquired as he took his seat. I did keep a small reserve of intoxicants for foreign guests. Ammar just shrugged lazily "Coffee is fine, I was only waiting for you." How charming. I poured his drink then my own tea. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Ammar? Seeing your parents just this afternoon, I didn't suppose I'd be seeing you quite so soon." He gave me an apologetic smile, "Pardon me Sitara, I shouldn't have come unannounced." He too, uttered my name as if it rolled off his tongue without permission. Like I said, strangers and names were dangerous together. "But," he continued, "I needed you to know some ground facts that my parents might have.. forgotten to mention before you began considering the offer." The subtle pause told me enough. "You're married?" He barked out a startled laugh. Amber, his wide, shocked eyes were a molten amber in the golden light of my office. "Good lord, no! Not even my parents would take matters so far. ." "A broken engagement, then." I hazarded another guess. He sighed an unhappy sound that I found I didn't care to hear again. "Close," He replied looking away, "a broken heart, if you wish to be specific." I didn't but I merely sipped my tea, silently urging him on. "A college sweetheart. We were going to get married but just a month before our official engagement was scheduled, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She died within weeks after. The words rushed from his mouth as if they'd burned his tongue and he couldn't get them out fast enough. And he wouldn't, wouldn't look at me. "I'm sorry," I said my voice softer than I'd imagined it could be. "Do you want me to refuse this offer?" It would make sense if it was his parents, not him, who wished that he settled down. Perhaps he'd agreed only so that they stop badgering him. But his eyes widened once again. Gold this time. "Sitara," my name was a whispered plea on his tongue. Perhaps I'd been too callous in my statement, "It has been two years. I wish to move on but I just don't know how to. I.. I heard what happened to you last year. My parents don't know, but I thought I'd have a better chance if we could you know heal together. A senior then. If he'd heard what happened, Yasir, Ammar Yasir- "You're Tariq's best friend." A nod. "The day you were. injured, he took my car to get you to the hospital. When later I asked him about it, he just broke down. I swear not a soul knows except me and he wouldn't even have told me had I not-" "It's fine" I cut him off, my voice a tad harsher than I'd intended "Sitara," he tried again, eyes a bleak yellow. "I have some conditions as to how this marriage will work" I stated, watching the lamplight reflect off the links of his afghan. "You're willing to give this a chance?" Surprise lit his eyes, his voice. I nodded. "If you're okay with the conditions." "Anything." "For the first three months, you don't touch me. Over pieces of clothing is fine, but nothing beneath." A shadow entered his fire bright eyes. "If you think I'd ever lay on hand on you without your consent-" My brain went static at his words as memories vivid and humming filled my head. Hands that weren't mine- A weight that wouldn't budge even when I kicked and pushed and screamed- And suddenly I was shaking. Chilled despite the mellow night. At some point, I'd abandoned my tea and stood up. "I will need some time," I stated, my voice betraying only a slight tremor, "to get used to the feel of you, so that the slightest touch doesn't put me in a panic attack." He stood up too and wordlessly took off his afghan and settled it around my bare shoulders. His movements gentle, hands never touching. I shook my head knowing he'd misunderstood. "I am fine with the casual touches- my hands, arms, feet - it's the intimate touch that will take time getting used to." As if to prove my point to him, to myself, I took his hand in both of my own. His eyes brown and slow were fixed on mine. "Hands, arms, feet.. what about your face?" His gaze roved over my face, lingered on my lips before returning. A little warmth finally returned to my blood. So I held his eyes as I raised his hand, still clasped between both of my own, to my lips and placed a feather light kiss on his knuckle before whispering, "Fair game."