The Insurance Claim
"He's the insurance adjuster handling her car accident claim. She's the Somali woman who keeps calling with questions—always polite, always the last call of his day. When he finally meets her in person for the assessment, the claim isn't the only thing he adjusts."
I handle claims all day.
Broken windows. Stolen cars. Accidents on roundabouts. Every call is someone's worst day, and I'm the voice trying to make it better.
Then there's Layla Hassan.
She calls every Friday at 4:45 PM with questions about her claim. Legitimate questions—she's not trying to game the system. She just wants to understand what's happening with her car.
"What does 'pending review' mean?" she asks this week.
"It means we're waiting on documentation."
"What documentation?"
"The mechanic's assessment. Should be in Monday."
"And then?"
"Then I can process your claim."
"Thank you, Mr. Hussein. You're very patient."
"It's my job."
"It's more than that." A pause. "Most people aren't this kind."
I stay on the phone longer than I should.
The in-person assessment is scheduled for Tuesday.
Her car. Her mechanic's garage in Leyton. A routine visit I've done a thousand times.
But I've never been nervous before.
I've been talking to her for six weeks. I know her voice, her laugh, her way of asking questions until she understands completely. I don't know her face.
When I arrive, she's standing by the car.
And suddenly six weeks of phone calls make perfect sense.
She's beautiful.
Not conventionally—her nose is strong, her face angular, her body more practical than model-thin. But there's something about her that makes me forget I'm supposed to be professional.
"Mr. Hussein?"
"Kamal." I extend my hand. "After six weeks, I think we can use first names."
"Kamal." She smiles. "I'm Layla, but you knew that."
"I know a lot about you." I look at her car. "Let's see if I can add to that."
The assessment takes an hour.
I inspect the damage. She watches. We talk—about the accident, about insurance, about everything except the thing building between us.
"The claim should be approved by Friday," I finally say.
"And then what?"
"Then I process the payout. Fix your car. Our professional relationship ends."
She steps closer. "And our unprofessional one?"
"I don't have unprofessional relationships with clients."
"I won't be a client after Friday." She holds my gaze. "Then what?"
I should maintain boundaries.
Instead, I write my personal number on the claim form.
"Call me when the cheque clears," I say.
"And if I want to call before that?"
"Then I'll tell you to wait." I hold her gaze. "Some things are worth doing properly."
She takes the form.
Smiles.
I leave knowing I'm going to break every rule I have.
She calls Saturday morning.
"The cheque cleared."
"I know. I processed it."
"So I'm not your client anymore."
"No."
"Then would you like to get coffee?"
"I'd like to get more than coffee." I pause. "But coffee is a start."
Coffee becomes dinner.
Dinner becomes her flat in Leyton, the same borough where I assessed her car.
"This is fast," she says as I kiss her in her doorway.
"Six weeks of phone calls." I pull her inside. "That's not fast."
"We were talking about insurance."
"We were talking about each other." I close the door behind us. "Insurance was just the excuse."
We don't make it to the bedroom.
Her couch catches us—the same couch she probably sat on during our Friday calls, asking questions, making me stay late.
"Kamal—"
"I've imagined this—" I push up her dress. "Your voice in my ear, wondering what you looked like—"
"And now you know?"
"Now I can't unknow." I kiss down her body. "Now I don't want to."
I taste her while her claim documents sit somewhere in my office.
Probably shredded by now. The professional part is over. This is something else.
"Yes—there—"
I work her with my tongue until she's shaking, until six weeks of buildup explodes, until she's crying out things that have nothing to do with insurance.
"Inside me—please—"
I climb up her body.
Push inside.
She feels like the end of a very long wait.
"You're—"
"Don't stop—"
I don't stop.
Move inside her while she wraps around me, while her flat fills with sounds that were never part of any phone call.
"Kamal—I'm going to—"
"With me—"
We come together.
Collapse on her couch.
Laugh at how we got here.
"I should file a customer satisfaction survey," she says later.
"Please don't."
"Five stars for claims processing." She grins. "Above and beyond service."
"You're terrible."
"You love it."
I do.
I really do.
We date properly after that.
Dinners. Movies. Meeting families who ask how we met and get a censored version involving cars and paperwork.
"The insurance guy?" her brother asks.
"The best insurance guy." She squeezes my hand. "Very thorough assessments."
I choke on my tea.
She smiles innocently.
A year later, I propose.
Not at the garage where we met. At a restaurant, like normal people.
"You could have done it at the mechanic's," she jokes.
"Some things don't need to be poetic." I open the ring box. "Some things just need to be real."
"Is this real?"
"More real than any claim I've ever processed."
She says yes.
And I file it in my heart under "approved."
Forever.