Quintessentially (Un)lucky

The air tasted sour that day. I just knew from the moment my eyes opened that it was an absolutely morose, burdensome, horrible, tumultuous, momentous in a bad-kind-of-way, day. I knew it when I woke up feeling the broken frame of my glasses jabbing my right side. As I reached my hand out and patted the sheets around me blindly to find the rest of my frame, I knocked down my table lamp, which resulted in a floor full of porcelain shards and a room full of curses.

I took a deep breath and released it as a short sigh.

Remembering the busy schedule for the day, I sat up in my bed and drew tight circles on my temples a few times. I put by hands together and said a quick prayer, “Ya Rabb, please let this day go well!” I found my right temple-less glasses lying next to my butt, and I just stared at it for a few seconds thinking, how dare you?, and imagining that my glasses felt shame at causing so much trouble so early in the day.

Balancing my glasses gingerly on my nose, I collected the edge of my quilt and used it to sweep the sharp pieces on the floor to the side. I cautiously hopped around to avoid stabbing myself and rushed to my phone to check the time. It was concerning that I did not wake up to my alarm that I set for 6:20am the night before. The first thing that caught my eye was that it was 7:42am. The second was that my phone screen unlocked to the calculator app. The calculator app that read “6.20”. That was when my walls heard the second string of curses that day.

Realizing I had missed the 7:30am bus and had exactly 33 minutes until the next one arrived, I grabbed by towels, a new box of contact lenses, my outfit, and an unopened bottle of shower gel and sprinted to my bathroom. It’s important that I note here it was an unopened bottle of shower gel. Unbeknownst to me, this bottle of shower gel apparently had a conversation with the higher being and decided it knew exactly how to ruin my day further. When I opened the bottle and welcomed it to the world, much like a newborn baby, its birth came with a lot of exploded fluids. When gravity caught up to the blob that projected vertically upwards, it landed on my head. After washing my hair, I styled it with various products so I did not resemble the before image of Princess Mia in the Princess Diaries. All of this ate 20 minutes, which meant I did not have time for breakfast.

I stuffed a muffin in a sandwich bag, tossed it in my backpack, and poured coffee into my thermos. A ding from my phone had me reaching to check my notifications when the quintessential ‘bad day’ event occurred. I spilled my scalding hot coffee on my beige blouse. Of course. By now, you, the reader, are probably wondering how in the world did I not expect this to happen? In fact, who reaches across for anything with an open thermos right in front of them? An idiot, that's who.

After spitting out the third string of curses, I changed my outfit to the only remaining top that wasn’t in the laundry basket yet- my ugly Christmas sweater I had designed at a friend’s party. It was June 5th. At this point, I truly did not care anymore. I started questioning if going to class was worth it. It wasn’t like Professor Smith would notice my absense in a class of 92. Yet, I thought, It would be just my luck if there’s a pop quiz on fugacity worth 90% of my grade the one day I missed class. 

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly this time. I just had to get through this day. Alive.

I collected my keys, balanced my backpack on my right shoulder, wrapped my shawl, slipped on my shoes, and said a quick prayer before leaving my apartment. The air felt a little cool, and the clouds owned a grey tint, but I barely had any energy to fret about getting wet in the rain. Instead, I accepted it was a part of my fateful ‘worst day in history’ record day. Bus 83 arrived. I got in and said, “Hello.” The bus driver looked blankly at me before gesturing at the machine in annoyance. I swiped my card and took a seat at the back. I stared out the window at the Pittsburgh skyline as we crossed the Fort Pitt Bridge, and I couldn’t help but smile in awe of my temporary home.

The bus stopped, and the seat beside me dipped. I glanced to my left and saw a well put-together, brown curly-haired, green-eyed, leather blazer-wearing gentleman. I blinked, thinking to myself Hellooo stranger before I remembered my manners. I gave him a quick smile and averted my eyes to the window. Remembering the notification that caused the coffee commotion earlier, I checked my inbox to find the message, “Your card was charged $112.96 by MonthlyMeals. Your package will be arriving in 2 days. Please rate and let us know your experience!”

I couldn’t help it. The sound that left my body was primal. It was the sound, I imagine, that the cavemen let out when they noticed leaking rainwater in their caves after they finished their paintings. Or the sound software engineering students make when their code is set to run overnight and they wake up to a Microsoft update. Or the sound one makes when trying to connect to the CVS pharmacist. The mixture of frustration and defeat in the exact proportions.

The handsome specimen to my left turned to me with his eyebrows raised in a question. I sighed. “I’ve been having a pretty terrible morning.” He let a second pass by before replying with a gorgeous smile, “And here I thought your choice to wear a Christmas sweater in June was a bold one... one that I found very intriguing.”

I barely listened what he said because he spoke with a British accent. British. Accent. How perfect is this man? Since I didn’t know how to reply, I continued, “The meal service I signed up for just charged me because I forgot to cancel the free trial yesterday.”

“Ah, that is unfortunate.” “Yes.” “Maybe you could cook a posh meal to share with your significant other?”

Although my senses were dulled by his perfectness, somewhere in my brain, there was a light flashing. It may have been accompanied with sirens, but I can’t be certain. His expression turned into slight panic right after the words escaped him. I replied, “I… uhh… don’t have a boyfriend.” Pause. “Cool, I'm Ali.” “Shireen.”

I nodded aimlessly. As if I was confirming that was indeed my name. There was another pause. I pursed my lips and looked away, not knowing what else to say. My mind was speeding, but nothing useful came out of it.  

“I’m sorry for making this awkward. I'm a Muslim as well. I found it interesting that you were wearing a Christmas sweater in June with a hijab on. Sorry if I came on too forward.”

My jaw slackened a little. He was apologizing to me... in his perfect accent, with his perfect curls, and his perfect sensitiveness. I smiled. I was excited that he was a Muslim, same as me. “No, no, that’s okay.” I looked out the window again, but this time I couldn’t admire Pittsburgh with my busy mind. I turned back to him, “I don’t ever do this, but do you want to get to know each other? I’ll have a baked beef rigatoni recipe with all the ingredients ready at home in two days, and a chocolate muffin with your name on it.”

He showed me his pearly whites. He has dimples! “I love pasta.”

Today is 27 years after this absolutely morose, burdensome, horrible, tumultuous, momentous in a bad-kind-of-way, day. I made beef lasagna for lunch, and Ali baked us chocolate scones. We have shared many good and bad days, but nothing quite as lucky as the day we met.