Giving a grown woman permission to dress herself. How liberal! I thought.

“She will also be granted leave to visit with her friends and family as she likes. I think it is important for her to have a social life.” He pulled the tip of his mustache and twirled it upward.

“How generous of you to grant her these things.”

“I am not like most Indian men, Leila,” he went on, not catching my tone. “In fact, I am very Westernized. I like English movies and songs. I don’t even eat very spicy foods.”

“That’s a shame, because I love spicy foods.”

“Oh, me too,” he quickly changed his tune. “I am willing to adjust my tastes to whatever my wife likes.”

How agreeable.

As Asad carried on about how atypical he was, I was reminded of all the qualities that turned me off about conservatively traditional men. Men like Asad were oblivious to their sexist, controlling, and chauvinistic tendencies. They touted their open-mindedness with contradictory statements of “permissions” and “allowances.” Needless to say, I was not impressed.

As much as I wanted to leave, my mother kept popping in every five minutes pretending to “look for something” and walking out with a pleased smile. I couldn’t believe this was how my night was going to end. I propped my elbow on the table, leaned my head against the inside of my hand, and wondered what Hisham was doing at this very moment. Was he busy with the festivities? Was he looking for me too? What if he was talking to someone else? I needed to get back out there.

“Listen,” I finally interrupted, just as Asad began describing his favorite scene from the movie Titanic in excruciating detail. “As much as I’ve enjoyed—”

The door suddenly swung open, and I swallowed the rest of my sentence, expecting it to be my mother again. However, when I glanced up, it was Hisham.

“Hey,” he said, stopping in his tracks, looking at the two of us. “Do you two . . . know each other?”

Asad smiled and twirled his mustache. “Hey, dood,” he said in such a heavy accent that my body automatically recoiled. “We are getting to know each other.” He gave Hisham an obnoxious wink.

Hisham stared at us for a few silent moments as I stared at the floor. This was hardly the second impression I was hoping for. Hisham poured himself a cup of chai from the carafe and walked back toward the door. As he held the cup in his left hand, he lifted his free hand to his eye, giving us a quick salute. He then pushed his shoulder against the door and disappeared just as Asad launched into another “fascinating” tidbit about himself.

I exhaled slowly and slouched into my chair, staring at the clock. What was I supposed to do now? Should I go after him? Try to talk to him? Even kismet couldn’t help me recover from this. So much for fate.