The Eid Prayers

صلاة العيد

Ten thousand Muslims in one park.

Every Eid, Birmingham gathers. Biggest outdoor prayer in Europe.

And every Eid, I see him.

I'm Ayesha.

Thirty-nine, never married. Every year, the same man catches my eye across the barrier.

This year, I find out why.

The women's section is separate.

But I can see the men's side. And there he is—salt-and-pepper beard, green kufi, praying like his life depends on it.

I've watched for seven years.

"Eid Mubarak!" The crowd disperses.

Usually he disappears. This year, I follow. Not creepily—purposefully.

"Excuse me."

He turns.

"Eid Mubarak. Do I know you?"

"No. But I've seen you every Eid for seven years."

"I've seen you too." He smiles. "Green hijab. Always green."

"You noticed?"

"I notice beautiful things."

His name is Hassan.

Forty-five, accountant, widower. His wife died eight years ago.

"I started coming to Eid prayers to heal," he admits.

"Has it worked?"

"I think it just did."

"Why didn't you ever approach?"

"The barriers. The rules. The fear."

"Fear of what?"

"That the woman in green was happier in my imagination than she'd be in reality."

"Am I?"

"You're better. You approached me."

"Someone had to end seven years of staring."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

We have Eid breakfast together.

Then lunch. Then dinner. Then conversations that last until Fajr.

"This is fast," I say.

"We've been slow for seven years. Fast is earned."

The first kiss is after Isha.

In his car, properly parked, improperly behaving.

"Astaghfirullah," he murmurs.

"Astaghfirullah."

Neither of us stops.

"Marry me."

"We've known each other for one day."

"We've known each other for seven Eids. That's different."

"Is it?"

"Time isn't linear when it comes to love."

We marry before the next Ramadan.

Fast engagement, proper wedding. The community talks—but approves.

"Happy?" he asks on our wedding night.

"Seven years of watching. Finally touching."

"Worth the wait?"

"Every single Eid."

Five years later

We go to Eid prayers together now.

Same park, same crowd. But we're not across barriers anymore.

"Best Eid?" he asks.

"Every one with you."

Alhamdulillah.

For prayers that gather.

For patience that rewards.

For Eids that become forever.

The End.