Whatevs. Usin da old folks as an xcuse cos u hv ears lyk a bat.
Farah: Goodnight. I am happy for you, Fats. Xx
Fatti: I know xxxx
Farah is typing…
I’m dying a little inside. I want to be happy for you. But I’m too sad for me right now. I can’t find the light at the end of this tunnel.
Farah then deleted her message and turned around in bed, hoping for sleep.
Farah was happy for Fatti. At least she would be just as soon as her own life caught up with her sister’s. She put her phone away and reached over for Mustafa.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, putting her arm around him.
There was a pause. ‘Hmm.’
Farah stroked his chest. She knew he liked the way she curled his hairs around her fingers. Farah used to like it too, until it became a bit arduous; another hurdle in the obstacle of impregnation.
‘Want to try and make a baby?’
He turned his head. ‘What?’
She attempted to give him her most seductive look.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You look like you might cry.’
She paused, biting back her surge of anger.
‘Cry?’ she carried on whispering. ‘Only if you make me.’
Her hand slid down his torso when he turned around towards her fully. ‘I’m not in the mood, babe.’
He brushed the hair away from her forehead and planted a kiss on her brow.
‘What about me?’ she asked.
She was no longer whispering, but she tried to keep the accusation out of her voice. He looked at her for a moment and gave a tight smile.
‘It’s been a bit of a night,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you exhausted? Let’s sleep.’
How was her slim chance of getting pregnant ever going to happen if her husband didn’t sleep with her? Mustafa turned his back again but she pulled him towards her. All it took was one time. This night had to be it. It felt fortuitous with Fatti’s pregnancy. If she could get happily married and start a family, then Farah could surely get pregnant and happy too. If only her husband would let her.
‘All the night’s made me want to do is…’
She put her hand between his legs, but he moved it gently away.
‘Come on, babe. I’m serious.’
One time. Just the once and they’d be done. Her family would stop looking at her with such pity, and words that didn’t seem to belong to her would stop spilling out of her mouth, causing other people pain.
‘So am I.’
She pulled his face towards her and kissed him. His mouth tasted minty and his beard bristled on her face. She had a memory of the way they used to kiss and it stirred something up inside her.
‘Farah,’ he mumbled.
‘Mhmm.’
‘Farah, stop.’ He pulled away, looking at her. ‘What’s got into you?’
Why was he being so difficult? After the way the night had gone, how could he not want to make it better by giving her just one chance?
‘Me?’ she said, sitting up. ‘I’m your wife. How are we ever going to get pregnant if we don’t have sex?’
He took a deep breath and sat up with her. ‘I didn’t know we were trying again.’
‘We should always be trying.’
‘Listen, I know this thing with Fatti must be hard for you right now, but I told you, I’m not in the mood.’
‘Oh, of course, your mood.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘If this was the other way around you know that I’d never force you.’
She scoffed. ‘I didn’t realize sleeping with me was such a task.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Farah tried to relax – tension didn’t help getting pregnant, that’s what numerous articles and bloggers said. It’s all about de-stressing as well as things like ovulation and science.
‘Well then?’ She put her hand on his face, stroking his beard.
He patted her hand and went to move it away, but she kept it there, forcing it to his face.
‘For God’s sake, Farah,’ he shouted.
He pushed her away and leapt out of bed. She leaned back, pulling the covers over her. Mustafa’s shadow seemed to her foreboding and foreign in that moment, and her heart began to thud.
‘Mustafa…’
‘What the hell are you playing at? What’s wrong with you?’
He said it with such a look of disgust it brought unexpected tears to her eyes. Everything is wrong with me. I’m a woman who can’t even have a baby. She knew she shouldn’t think like this because that’s not all a woman is, but she couldn’t help feeling it. She’d wanted a family of her own since she could remember. So many years had been spent trying and dreaming of what it would be like that she didn’t know how to want anything else. It’d be like teaching herself not to breathe.
‘Don’t make me feel bad, because you can’t conceive,’ he added.
Before she could even take in the words he’d spouted, he’d left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, putting her hands to her face and letting the stream of tears come out.
That night she sobbed herself into a dreamless sleep.
When Farah woke up the following morning her eyes felt sore and her vision was blurred. She reached out to Mustafa’s side of the bed and when she realized he wasn’t there the preceding night came back to her. She closed her eyes again and put her head under the cover, trying to block out the all-in-one shame of rejection and accusation.
Did Mustafa not want a family any more, or did he just not want her? Did he really blame her as much as she blamed herself? She hadn’t ever imagined a Mustafa who’d say such a thing. All this culpability really did exhaust her. She kept her eyes closed until she fell asleep again.
This time Farah awoke to clattering. It was coming from the kitchen. As she swung her legs over the bed she still couldn’t open her eyes. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it over herself, trying to steady her feet. The words beat in her ears: Don’t make me feel bad because you can’t conceive. She opened her eyes as her face flushed in anger. She didn’t need her husband to feel the same way she felt about herself. That’s not how it worked with them. It never had and it wouldn’t damn well start now.
She ran down the stairs without even brushing her teeth or washing her face, the gunk from last night’s make-up gathered in the corners of her eyes. Farah burst through the living room that led to the kitchen, ready to point her finger at Mustafa and shout at him. She wasn’t sure what she’d say yet, but anger was best served improvised. She stopped. He was hunched over the hob, frying some eggs. Their small table was set with two plates and cutlery. Mustafa turned her head towards her, giving her such a sad smile that all her anger fell away.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She looked at the table again.
‘I made us breakfast,’ he added when she didn’t speak.
‘I