Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [64]
And if she were a sinner, the sin they shared was so sweet and exhilarating that Abdal could not imagine why Allah would condemn it. Surely they would be forgiven once they married.
Assuming he lived to see that happen.
Abdal had not told Sara about his mistake in America, how he had jeopardized months of planning with his impulsiveness. He couldn’t let her know that he was a failure, a disgrace, even though he was certain she would not think less of him for it. She knew what had been done to his family and she understood his pain. But he could not risk seeing even a hint of disappointment in her eyes—not judgment, but simple regret for his inability to exact vengeance against those who had harmed them.
Abdal felt her warmth in the darkness, her life. He had fallen in love with Sara the instant he saw her and he remembered that moment with great clarity.
It was late afternoon just six months ago, and he was in the tube, headed home after work. The train had pulled into the Charing Cross Station and the doors opened, letting in a rush of commuters. With them came what he could only believe was an apparition—a woman too beautiful to be real.
Yet she was real. And as she timidly pushed her way through the crowd, moving in his direction in search of a place to sit, Abdal jumped to his feet, gesturing for her to take his place.
She had smiled at him then, a smile like a warm breeze, and Abdal had stared at her so long and so hard that she finally looked away in discomfort.
He had cursed himself for making her feel that way. No one should—ever.
Abdal had never been awkward around women, but there was something about this one that both unnerved and fascinated him, and he could not bring himself to speak to her. To apologize for his rudeness.
Still, he wanted to ride past his stop, just to be near her a bit longer, and it had taken all his will to leave that train when he arrived at his station in Newham.
He saw her the next day. And the next. He didn’t know whether it was coincidence or the work of Allah, but they somehow managed to share the same car for nearly a week. On the fifth day, after he had once again surrendered his seat to her, she was the one to speak.
“My name is Sara,” she said softly, once again offering him that warm smile. “Since you’ve been so kind to me, I thought you should know.”
Names had never meant much to Abdal. They were merely labels used to identify people. But Sara’s name was like a song to him. The sound of it, as it was released from those beautiful lips, washed over him as if it were sent from heaven. A message from Allah that there was something special about this woman. Something beyond her beauty.
Sara. Sara Ghadah.
Abdal’s own name caught in his throat as he struggled to respond, but he finally managed to get it out, and what followed was a flood of words he had no memory of. Whatever he said to her, it made her laugh and that could only be good.
For the next several days they sought each other out on the train until Abdal finally found the courage to ask her to dinner. They went as soon as they left the train, and only then did Abdal realize that Sara was just as eager to know him as he was to know her.
They ate at a small café near Hyde Park, a meal that lasted much longer than it should have. It was a traditional halal meal, which was more and more common in London, offered by merchants who prized profit over indignation toward the Muslim population. They had lamb with a white bean and risotto mix on the side, finishing with fruit. While the food was mediocre, every bite seemed exquisite because he was sharing it with her.
Afterward, they walked in the park, talking. Abdal told her about his job repairing computers