Mr. Bollywood

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? I repeated to myself nervously as I tapped the heel of my navy blue stiletto against the table leg and stared at the gold-embossed vintage clock hanging on the wall directly behind my table. My stomach felt woozy, like I had just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl, and I tried my best to calm my nerves. Hannah had stayed true to her word and set up the entire date.

Three o’clock sharp, and don’t be late, Leila! she had texted right below the address of the location last night. Although I had gotten to the bistro a little early, I couldn’t help but wonder when Omar would arrive. Muslims were notorious for being late—we had even coined the term “Muslim Standard Time” to jokingly refer to our issues with punctuality. Despite this cultural malfunction, I always made the extra effort to dispel this stereotype and couldn’t help but silently judge those who didn’t do the same. I glanced at the clock once more, watching the minutes tick by. The anticipation was beginning to do a number on my nerves, and anyone who knew me was aware that patience was definitely not one of my strongest qualities.

As I sat there, restless, a torrent of questions flooded my mind: What is he like? Will he like me? Will I like him? Is he cute? Regardless of all the impressive things Hannah had told me about Omar over the past week, I had never actually had a direct conversation with him. Everything I knew about him came from a secondary source, so although I was hopeful, I tried not to have any expectations. I’d learned in the past few weeks there was no worse feeling than that of disappointment; it was far better to be pleasantly surprised than utterly disillusioned. However, as I watched the small hand pass the fifteen-minute mark on the clock, I couldn’t help but think that Omar wasn’t making the best first impression by being late to our first date. My hopes of him not running on MST were already dashed.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the doors of the small restaurant opened and a tall, muscular, caramel-complexioned man came striding through. It had to be Omar. I held my breath for a second as I watched him quickly scan the restaurant; his eyes stopped squarely in my direction. He precisely lowered his shades with his right index finger, gave me a slight smile, and strutted toward the table. He was wearing a slim-fitting, white, collared shirt that was unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, tight-fitted gray slacks, and shiny Italian-leather loafers. His outfit was complete with a gaudy Armani belt and gold-framed aviator sunglasses—which I noticed he still had not taken off.

“Greetings, I’m Omar,” he said in a deep, commanding voice as he held out his hand. As we awkwardly shook hands, a glint of bright yellow from his thick gold chain-link bracelet nearly blinded me.