The Punchline
"She heckles the Somali comedian—not on purpose, just an involuntary laugh at the wrong moment. He makes her part of the act. She gives as good as she gets. After the show, he finds her. Turns out they're both better at banter than either expected."
I didn't mean to heckle.
He was talking about Somali mothers, and the impersonation was so accurate I snorted loudly enough for the whole room to hear.
"Someone agrees!" He points his mic at me. "Ma'am, tell us—is your hooyo like that too?"
"Worse."
The audience laughs.
"Worse how?"
"She once called the police because I wasn't answering my phone." I shrug. "I was in the shower."
He stares at me. Then bursts out laughing.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my people."
He makes me part of the act.
We trade stories about overbearing mothers and impossible aunties and the specific chaos of growing up Somali in London. The audience loves it.
"You should be on stage," he says.
"I'm happy in the cheap seats."
"Cheap seats with that material?" He grins. "You're wasted there."
After the show, he finds me.
"I'm Faisal." He extends his hand.
"Amina." I shake it. "Sorry for interrupting your set."
"Sorry? That was the best set I've had in months." He gestures toward the bar. "Let me buy you a drink."
"For heckling?"
"For being funnier than me."
Drinks become more drinks.
More stories. More laughter. The kind of chemistry that comedians dream about.
"Why comedy?" I ask.
"Because my family doesn't understand me. Might as well make them laugh about it." He looks at me. "Why aren't you doing something creative?"
"I'm an accountant."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a practical answer."
"Practical is boring." He leans closer. "And you're not boring."
"Come home with me."
He says it simply. No games.
"You don't waste time."
"Life's too short." He stands, extends his hand. "What do you say?"
His flat is covered in comedy notes.
Jokes on Post-its. Ideas on whiteboards. A life dedicated to making people laugh.
"This is chaos," I observe.
"This is creativity." He pulls me toward him. "You should try it sometime."
"What, chaos?"
"Creativity." He kisses me. "Let me show you."
He makes love like he performs—confidently, attentively, reading every response and adjusting.
"Faisal—"
"You're beautiful when you laugh." He pushes deeper. "You're beautiful when you moan."
"That's a lot of pressure—"
"No pressure." He grins. "Just observation."
We come together laughing.
Which shouldn't work, but does. Everything about us shouldn't work, but does.
"You should write comedy," he says afterward.
"I'm not funny."
"You heckled a professional comedian and held your own." He traces patterns on my skin. "You're funnier than you know."
I write comedy.
Just for him at first. Then for open mics. Then for real.
"You're my best material," he says on our anniversary.
"I'm your only material."
"That's the joke." He pulls out a ring. "Marry me and give me content forever?"
I say yes.
Because he's right.
Life's too short not to laugh.
And he makes me laugh every day.