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My response takes two seconds.
Me:No meeting up.
Zahra:Okay then. You’re shy. I get that.
I haven’t been called shy since I was a kid.
Zahra:That’s all right. Maybe one day.
Me:Are you this hopeful about everything?
Zahra:Sure. Why not?
Me:Because life isn’t always rainbows and sunshine.
Zahra:Of course not. But how can we appreciate the sun every morning if we don’t live through the dark?
What kind of drugs does she take?
My phone buzzes again as if the silence scares her.
Zahra:What’s your name? You know, so I can put a name to a face.
I’m experiencing my personal hell. Turns out Zahra is a back-to-back serial texter.
Me:Exceptyou don’t have a face.
Good job stating the obvious.My poor attempt at a joke falls flat, and I’m reminded yet again why I don’t bother with them to begin with.
Zahra:Duh. But for now, I’ll just picture you as a young James Dean.
James fucking Dean?What kind of old-school shit does Zahra watch? James Dean was someone my grandpa used to talk about.
My fingers fly across the screen before I consider the repercussions of having a conversation that has nothing to do with work.
Me:I’m sorry. How old are you?
Zahra:HAHA.
I’m filled with some kind of warmth at the idea of making her laugh. I frown at the sensation.
Zahra:To be fair, my parents are into retro and iconic American things. It was their dream to move here when they were kids, so I’m afraid James Dean is only the tip of the iceberg. Don’t get me started on my love for vintage clothing stores and Elvis Presley.
That’s something I can relate to. My grandpa was the same way about American pop culture. He was always obsessed since he immigrated here from Ireland with nothing but a single suitcase and a dream to draw.
My chest pinches and I shove the memory out of my mind.
Zahra:I even taught myself to play the ukulele to impress my parents.
Zahra:I’m quite terrible though, much to my dad’s disappointment.
I come to the realization I’m entrusting my livelihood in the hands of someone who happens to be the most bizarre person I’ve ever met. Zahra is a risk as much as she’s an investment. Like putting a million dollars into penny stocks and hoping I don’t get fucked over in the end.
Zahra:…so do you plan on telling me your name now or do you want me to guess?
Zahra:I can pull up a baby-naming website and get cracking. We can even make it into a game.
God, no. Who knows what kind of messages I would open myself up to?
