The Islamic Center Janitor

عامل نظافة المركز الإسلامي

The Islamic Center of Chicago closes at 10 PM.

That's when my shift begins. Clean the prayer halls, the bathrooms, the classrooms. Vacuum the carpets, mop the floors, empty the trash.

I'm Ahmed. Egyptian, forty-two, working three jobs to pay for my daughter's college. This is the best job—quiet, peaceful, and I can make my own prayers while I work.

Tonight, I'm not alone.

She's in the women's section.

I can hear her crying through the partition. Soft, broken sounds that make me hesitate with my vacuum.

I should ignore it. None of my business.

But I'm Muslim. And a woman is crying in Allah's house.

"Sister? Is everything alright?"

Silence. Then: "I'm fine. Please, go away."

"I'm the janitor. I need to clean, but... if you need help..."

The partition rustles. She emerges.

She's maybe fifty.

Full-figured, well-dressed, eyes red from crying. I recognize her—Dr. Fatima Malik, the board president's wife. She runs the women's halaqas. Organizes charity drives. A pillar of the community.

"Ahmed, isn't it?" she says, wiping her eyes.

"Yes, sister. Dr. Malik."

"Please, just Fatima." She laughs bitterly. "I don't feel like a doctor right now."

"Can I help?"

"Can you make my husband love me again?" She shakes her head. "Sorry. That's not your problem."

"It sounds like a heavy burden."

"Twenty-five years of marriage. Twenty-five years of being the 'good wife.' And tonight I find out he's been having an affair with his secretary for three of them."

I don't know what to say.

So I say nothing. Just stand there, mop in hand, while a woman I barely know tells me her life is falling apart.

"I'm sorry," she says finally. "You don't need this. You have work to do."

"Work can wait."

"Why?"

"Because you're hurting. And the Prophet said that a believer who consoles a bereaved person will be clothed with garments of honor on the Day of Resurrection."

She stares at me.

"You just quoted hadith to the board president's wife."

"I quoted truth to a person in pain. The rest doesn't matter."

She starts crying again.

Not the quiet, controlled tears from before—real sobs, her whole body shaking.

I hesitate. Then I set down my mop and sit beside her.

"Let it out," I say. "Allah sees your pain."

She cries against my shoulder.

And something shifts.

It becomes a pattern.

She comes to the mosque after hours—"to pray," she tells her husband. I clean around her. We talk.

About her marriage. About my divorce years ago. About our children, our hopes, the ways life didn't turn out as planned.

"You're kind," she says one night.

"I'm just listening."

"Most men don't. Especially not to women like me."

"Women like you?"

"Old. Fat. Invisible."

"You're none of those things."

"I'm all of those things." She looks at me. "But when you look at me... I don't feel like them."

"Fatima—"

"I know. I'm the board president's wife. You work for the center. This is inappropriate on every level."

"It is."

"Tell me to stop coming."

"...I can't."

Three weeks later, she kisses me.

In the prayer hall, between Maghrib and Isha, while her husband thinks she's at a charity meeting.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, pulling back. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize."

"But—"

I kiss her back.

We don't go further.

Not that night. Not for weeks. But the kisses become regular—stolen moments after hours, always in the mosque, always careful.

"This is haram," she says.

"I know."

"We're sinning in Allah's house."

"I know."

"I don't want to stop."

"Neither do I."

Her husband announces his campaign for state senate.

He needs a respectable wife by his side. The affairs are hushed up. He comes home earlier, plays the devoted husband.

"It's all fake," Fatima tells me. "He doesn't touch me. Just needs me for appearances."

"Leave him."

"And go where? Do what? I'm fifty-two, Ahmed. I haven't worked in twenty years."

"Come to me."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" I take her hands. "I have nothing. A tiny apartment. Three jobs. A daughter in college. But I would love you. Really love you. Not as a prop for a campaign."

"Ahmed—"

"I'm not asking now. I know it's not that simple. But think about it. Please."

She thinks about it.

For months. While she stands beside her husband at fundraisers. While she smiles for cameras. While she dies inside.

And then, the night before the election, she comes to the mosque.

"I'm leaving him."

"What?"

"After tomorrow. Win or lose, I'm done. I filed for divorce this morning."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." She takes my face in her hands. "I want a real life. With a man who sees me. And if that man lives in a tiny apartment and works three jobs... that's still better than a mansion with a ghost."

I kiss her.

This time, we don't stop.

I take her in the Islamic Center.

In the storage room where we keep the extra prayer rugs. Not romantic, not elegant, but real.

"Ya Allah," she moans as I enter her. "I forgot what this felt like."

"I'll make sure you never forget again."

She's thick and soft and responsive.

Years of neglect have made her desperate—she comes twice before I do, her hands over her mouth to muffle the sounds.

"More," she begs. "Please. I've been so empty."

I fill her.

Again and again.

Until we're both exhausted on the prayer rugs.

"This is the worst sin I've ever committed," she whispers.

"Do you regret it?"

"...No. Is that worse?"

"I don't know." I stroke her hair. "But I know I love you. And I'll spend my life making this right."

"How?"

"Marry me. After your iddah. Make this halal."

Her husband loses the election.

The scandal breaks two weeks later—his affairs made public by a disgruntled staffer. The divorce is quick after that.

The community talks. Of course they talk.

But Fatima doesn't care.

She's too busy moving into my tiny apartment.

One year later

I still work at the Islamic Center.

Different shift now—daytime, with the other staff. Fatima still runs the women's halaqas.

We're poor. Happy. In love.

Some nights, after everyone leaves, we sneak into the storage room.

"For old times' sake," she giggles.

I make love to my wife where we first sinned.

And maybe—maybe—Allah understands.

The End.