Beginnings

"Hello Mohammad. May I come in?" Carrie said nervously.

"Of course. I see you are dressed differently today."

"Yes ... I was thinking. I've been selfish. So selfish. Every time I visit, I drone on and on about adapting to American culture. But I thought, maybe I should be adapting to his culture instead. What do you think?"

"It is a start, but only a start," Mohammad said, smiling thinly. "What do you think of the hijab?"

"I wasn't sure at first, but I think I like it. What do you think?"

"I think a woman's beauty should be reserved just for her husband. We're not married, of course, so it is ... fine." Carrie frowned at the half praise.

That afternoon, they went to a halal market to get groceries. Everything about him was new and foreign and that made it exciting. After, they chatted about Mohammad's history -- growing up in northern Afghanistan, the trials and tribulations and tragedies. But for all that trauma, it was home. And his life in America was empty.

"It's just a soulless country here, Carrie."

"Yeah, but the Taliban was terrorizing people, look at the women ..."

"And I fought against that. Too far. You've got chaos, you've got freedom, you've got structure and you've got tyranny. I've only known the first and the last. You've only known the second. I'm a refugee in a country where people may hate me, but your freedom is a cage too. What has dressing up like a harlot ever done for you? You need a structure imposed on you to blossom, Carrie. And I need to impose structure." Carrie blinked, her eyes big and doe-like.

"I could see that. This has been enlightening Mohammad, but I have class here in a bit. Perhaps we could discuss more next time," Carrie said. Mohammad walked her to the door, but she tripped on the threshold. Thankfully, he caught her, pulling her up. He was stronger than he looked, and she breathed in his musk. Ooh, fuck, she thought, he's definitely a bull.

"Be more careful, Carrie."

"Yes, Mohammad. See you next week. I'm really looking forward to it."