No Love On Fulton Street

The corner of Fulton Street was always busy- clamoring with a stampede of New Yorkers exiting the G train station situated at the corner. There were always honking cars deadlocked on Main Street, and a clerk in a kiosk that appeared to never have a deficit of customers. Fahim approached the corner on his way to grab his usual coffee and bagel combo, when he stopped- feet skidding the sidewalk pavement. A woman stood in line, one he couldn’t ignore from a hundred and fifty feet away. He’d recognize her anywhere- the same olive green headscarf she wrapped in a Southern Indian fashion. The same few wavy strands of hair that dangled over her temple, visible from her side profile while standing in line. He remembered that brown leather tote bag draped over her shoulder- the same one Naima wore on their last date together.

His heart palpitated seeing her, itching to leap out only to be held back by the confines of his rib cage. He rubbed his chest lightly, as if the year since they last spoke wasn’t enough to recover from their break up. His heart skipped like it had the first time she approached him. He caught her eye many years ago– appearing grounded and steady, unlike the other boisterous men who’d bend over backwards just to catch sight of her. Fahim was quiet, shy, and not moved by many things. He’d rarely speak up for himself until things became dire. He wouldn’t complain to his landlord when there was no heat for the entire winter, or the time he ordered cheese grits and it came with bacon. He refused to complain or send the plate back and simply ate it, even though he was Muslim.

She covered her eyes from the harsh sunlight, appearing to gently look in Fahim’s direction. He immediately reacted, darting to the nearest bench and dramatically sat next to an older gentleman. He covertly peeked over his newspaper and watched her from afar- doubling as a shield to protect him from her line of sight. The old man grumpily looked at Fahim and noticed him fixated at the kiosk across the street. He then joined him, picking up what had garnered his attention. The old man turned to him and spoke nonchalantly:

“Well- you gonna talk to her or what?”

Fahim reacted defensively after being compromised:

“Huh?”

“Well, are you?” he asked.

“What- oh, no, no. Her? No- I was just looking ahead. Busy street, people watching, you know-” Fahim continued his excuses.

“She’s waiting for you, sonny.”

Fahim let out an exaggerated laugh to cover his anxieties. “Haha, no sir. It’s a bit—”

“Complicated?” The old man paused. “Whatever it is, you’re going to be thinking about it when you’re my age. Go ahead sonny, tell her how you feel.”

He pat Fahim on his shoulder blade, prompting him to rise from his seat. He smiled as Fahim began to reluctantly take his first steps down the street, approaching the kiosk.

As he crept closer, his steps shrank. His feet grew weary, heavy, axiomatic that he was anxious of what she would say. His brain ruminated with repeated potential outcomes he imagined:

“Hi Naima, how are you–” he said as she ignored him and kept on walking.

“Jerk!” she said as she slapped him.

“Don’t talk to me!” she said as she threw coffee at him, with onlooking New Yorkers side-eyeing him.

He shook his head to wave these off, but then began to reminisce on the past:

“Did you tell your mom about us, yet?”

“No, not yet Naima. I told you how it is with Bengali parents.”

“Are you… planning on it? My parents are expecting to meet them soon…” she asked longingly.

Although Fahim had met Naima’s parents, he’d prolong telling his parents about his relationship. He knew this bothered her, but he’d chalk it up to her simply not understanding internal Bengali cultural norms- one of which was that pre-marital dating was forbidden. It was only after months of pressure and hard conversations that Fahim finally caved and told his mother.

“Amma, I have to tell you something.”

“Yes Fahim, what is it?” his mother asked.

“Amma, there’s this girl.”

“Go on,” she said firmly.

“She’s really nice, and—”

“And you’ve been seeing her for the last year.”

“What— you knew?”

“Yes Fahim, I’ve already known for quite a while now. You’re terrible at hiding secrets, and I was waiting for you to tell me yourself.”

Fahim found himself relegated whenever Naima proved herself correctly, but this wasn’t the first splinter caused by his passive tendencies.

A few years later, Naima had started bringing up the topic of marriage. She was adamant about getting married soon. However, Fahim resisted this with other priorities that he felt were necessary. From looking to earn a higher salary, to delayed conversations with his parents, Fahim nudged Naima to wait longer until she couldn’t anymore. Their visions didn’t align, and they’d ended their relationship one evening.

“Naima- where are you going? Don’t go. We can do this, we can make this work. I’ll talk to my mom for you,” Fahim cried out as Naima put on her shoes and began to leave his apartment.

“No- Fahim. You should be doing this for you- not just for me. I’m not doing this anymore,” she croaked with tears, choking up.

Fahim followed her out of his apartment as she stormed out. He wanted to shout for her to come back, but resisted once he saw his neighbors looking on. Her silhouette faded into the distance as she walked down the block.

Fahim watched Naima this time from the kiosk, still standing from across the street. The clerk set her coffee on the counter when she began to reach into her bag to pay. He knew he had to act before she left- unwilling to leave a stone unturned this time.

He began crossing the street when a car started making its turn onto the road between them. He watched the car slowly approach the crosswalk while Naima began to leave the counter. Weighing the two- he decided to dart through the crosswalk, eliciting a string of loud beeps and horns as the car screeched to a halt.

“Watch where you’re going dumbass,” the driver hollered.

Fahim didn’t care. He ignored them and caught up to her. He recognized the perfume she was wearing from just a few feet away, and the same pace she walked in. He followed her for a few steps until he cleared his throat and finally called out:

Naima.

She stopped, and turned. Her eyes widened:

Fahim?

They shared a longing eye-contact for a few seconds, then filled the silence.

“How are you? How’s your mom? What are you doing here?” she asked endearingly but firmly.

“She’s fine.” He pointed at her coffee. “I was going to get some coffee as well. French Vanilla?”

“Yes. You remembered,” she answered stoically.

“Of course. Cool.” Fahim affirmed awkwardly. He thought to himself:

Cool? What’s so cool about that?

They then nodded at each other to fill the awkward silence between them.

“Ok Fahim, well… it was nice seeing you.”

Fahim cleared his throat again, “Uh– yes, likewise Naima. This was…nice.”

She slowly turned back around and started walking down the block. Fahim watched her take a few steps, her silhouette starting to blend into the block with others walking down. He thought about how long he kept himself silent, inside his box. From the times he never asked to complain to the server, to delaying Naima meeting his mother, to not taking the next step with her. He chased safety and familiarity, and watched it leave him again- disappearing down the street like before. He watched longingly when the old man’s words came up:

She’s waiting for you, sonny…

Tell her how you feel…

You’re going to be thinking about it when you’re my age…

Fahim finally shouted out:

“Naima! Wait!”

She turned around as Fahim caught up to her, looking at him with unease.

“Fahim? What is it–”

“No– wait. Naima, I need to get this off my chest. I’m sorry- okay? I’m sorry. So sorry. You deserved better, you deserved someone who was willing to take the next step. Who was willing to get out of their comfort zone.”

Naima looked on curiously.

“Naima– if there’s any way you would like to go out sometime. Maybe catch up? Something light, something–” Fahim rambled until he stopped abruptly.

The sun cast a glare from her hand, a glint that caused a slight wince in Fahim’s eyes. A ring on her finger, holding her coffee cup, gleamed in Fahim’s face. Naima was startled once he noticed it, jerking her hand in a way that spilled a small splash of coffee on the ground.

“Oh, is that—”

“Yes- Fahim.” She switched the coffee to her other hand, showing the ring and then putting her hand in her pocket. “I’m engaged.”

Fahim nodded his head in a reluctant acceptance. “I see.”

“Fahim— it was nice seeing you. But, I don’t think we should see each other… like that.”

Fahim swallowed and looked away. She rubbed his arm gently and made her way down the street, finally disappearing down the block into the crowd walking down the busy street. He continued standing at the corner while other New Yorkers walked around him- down the street in what appeared to be a rhythmic, fast pace in unison. His chest felt bare, his heart raw and chafed.

He eventually retreated back to the bench where he hid from Naima in the first place. Sinking into the seat, his face buried in his hands. Fahim began replaying the scenarios repeatedly in his head— from almost getting hit by a car, to finally approaching her, seeing the ring on her finger, and when she finally disappeared into the street. He thought to himself that he probably shouldn’t have approached her in the first place.

He continued ruminating when the old man from earlier walked past. He stopped in front of him, wearing a grimace that eclipsed the sun.

“Hey, I saw that,” the old man said sheepishly.

Fahim ignored him.

“Well? How’d it go?”

Fahim sucked his teeth, reluctant to answer.

The old man continued, “Well?”

Fahim gulped:

“She said no.”

“No? Oh! Why? Ah sonny, did you–”

“Yes!” Fahim erupted. “I took your stupid advice. She said no.”

The old man groaned empathetically.

“I should’ve just kept it to myself. I fell on my face and looked like such an ass.”

The old man nodded, folding the newspaper and tucking it under his armpit. He looked at Fahim:

“Well— at least you learned how to fall.”

Fahim half-heard and continued staring at the ground in frustration. The sun shined brighter, as he looked for the old man who had just disappeared into the sea of New Yorkers walking down Fulton Street. He rose from the bench to see him- but the old man had already turned the corner from the kiosk. Fahim continued looking at the corner– he thought about when he first saw Naima today. He thought about everything it took to approach her, and how hard he fell when seeing the ring on her finger. He continued looking ahead. The clerk taking orders as usual, the coffee stain on the ground, and the sea of New Yorkers walking past it.

Fahim walked over to the kiosk and saw the coffee stain, already beginning to evaporate under the sun. He decided to keep walking, disappearing into the sea of New Yorkers marching down Fulton Street.