The Eid Prayer
"She sees him every Eid at the prayer in Victoria Park—the tall Somali man who always stands in the same row. Five years of glances. This Eid, she finally speaks. What happens after prayer isn't religious, but it feels like worship."
Five years.
Five Eids. Ten prayers—Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha, twice a year, rain or shine.
And every time, he's there.
Tall. Serious. Standing in the same spot in the men's section, easy to find even among thousands of worshippers spread across Victoria Park.
I don't know his name. I don't know anything about him except his profile during prayer, the way he raises his hands for takbir, the way he slips away before I can find him in the crowd after.
This Eid, I'm not letting him slip away.
The prayer is beautiful.
Dawn light spreading across the park. Thousands of Muslims standing together, bowing together, prostrating together. The imam's voice carries across the grass, and for a moment, the whole city feels holy.
I pray, but I'm also watching.
There. Fourth row. Same spot as always.
Today, I moved closer. Today, I'm in a position to intercept.
When the prayer ends and the crowd begins to move, I push through the women's section toward where the men are standing.
"Excuse me—sorry—Eid Mubarak—"
He's walking away.
"Wait!" I call. "Please—wait!"
He turns.
Our eyes meet.
Five years of glances become five seconds of actual contact.
"Eid Mubarak," I manage.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiles.
"Eid Mubarak. I was wondering how long it would take you."
His name is Ismail.
He works in finance. Lives in Bethnal Green. Comes to Victoria Park every Eid because it's tradition, because his mother used to bring him here before she passed.
"I've been watching you," he admits over tea at a café near the park. "Every Eid. The woman in the blue hijab who always finds me in the crowd."
"I thought I was subtle."
"You weren't." He smiles. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"I was waiting for you to speak first."
"Ah." He nods slowly. "Traditional."
"Are you?"
"When it matters." His eyes meet mine. "Other times... not so much."
He invites me to his flat.
"Just tea," he says. "Just talking. I've been curious about you for five years. I'd like more than fifteen minutes in a crowded café."
I should say no.
I go anyway.
His flat is neat, spare, the home of someone who lives alone. He makes tea properly—leaves, not bags—and we sit on his couch and talk until the Eid afternoon fades into evening.
"Can I ask you something?" he says when the shadows grow long.
"Anything."
"Why me? Five years of watching. You could have approached anyone."
"I don't know." I set down my cup. "Something about the way you pray. Like you mean it. Like it's real for you, not just performance."
"Prayer is the most honest thing I do." He moves closer. "Everything else in my life is compromise. But when I bow, when I prostrate—that's just me and Allah."
"That's what I saw." I turn to face him. "Someone honest. Someone real."
"And now that you know me? Am I still real?"
"You're more real than I expected."
He kisses me as the call to Maghreb plays from his phone.
The prayer app, reminding us of obligation. But neither of us moves toward the prayer mat.
"We should—" I start.
"I know."
"This is—"
"I know." He kisses me again. "We can pray after."
"Is that okay?"
"I don't know." He pulls back, looks at me. "I've spent five years imagining this. Now you're here. And I don't want to stop for anything."
"Then don't stop."
He undresses me slowly.
My Eid clothes—the special abaya I wear only twice a year—fall to the floor. He looks at my body like it's prayer, like I'm something holy.
"Beautiful—"
"Ismail—"
"Five years." He kisses my shoulder. "Five years of imagining. Nothing compares to this."
He lays me on his bed. Worships me with his mouth.
Not quickly. Not desperately. Like he's making up for five years of waiting, like every kiss is a conversation we should have had.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He moves down my body. "I've been waiting too long to rush this."
His tongue is devotion.
Patient. Thorough. Building pleasure like building faith—slowly, steadily, until I'm crying out his name like a prayer.
"Ismail—I can't—"
"You can." He adds his fingers. "Let go, Sahra. I've got you."
I come like revelation.
Light and sound and feeling all at once, my body arching off his bed, five years of tension releasing in a wave that seems to go on forever.
"Now—" I pull at him. "Please—now—"
He rises over me.
He enters me as the adhan finishes.
The final words of the call hanging in the air while he fills me, while our bodies finally do what our eyes have been doing for five years.
"Perfect—" he breathes. "You feel perfect."
"I've imagined this—"
"Me too." He moves. "Every Eid. Going home alone. Thinking about you."
"I'm here now."
"Finally." He speeds up. "Finally."
We move together like we've always known how. Like five years of watching taught us each other's rhythms.
"I'm close—"
"Me too—" He reaches between us. "Together. Like prayer."
We come together.
Crying out in unison, bodies joined, souls somewhere beyond the physical.
After, we pray Maghreb side by side.
Late, but not missed. Standing together in his living room, moving through the motions, both of us different than we were an hour ago.
"Eid Mubarak," he says when the prayer is done.
"Eid Mubarak." I look at him. "That's twice you've said it today."
"Third time's the charm." He pulls me close. "Stay the night?"
"People will talk."
"People always talk." He kisses my forehead. "I've been watching you for five years, Sahra. I don't care what anyone says anymore."
"Neither do I."
I stay the night.
And the next. And the one after that.
By the following Eid, we're not watching each other across the crowd.
We're standing together.
Praying together.
Going home together.
Five years of waiting.
A lifetime of together.
Some prayers take time to be answered.
But when they are?
Worth every moment.