away.
The next day, Miryem apologized to her parents over breakfast, a simple affair of eggs, toast, and butter. They took the apology graciously at first, but tensed when she told them she still wouldn’t take Masrur as a husband. “I don’t know him, I didn’t choose him, I don’t love him. Dad, I can’t marry someone who just went along with the decision just like that. He’s weak.”
“He’s a boxer who will do well in his life.” her father retorted, not angry but seemingly annoyed, “He is kind, respectful, and listens to his elders. We have known him for years, daughter.” He waited for her to mull that over while buttering up a piece of toast, his eyes never leaving her face. Apparently he didn’t understand that there was more to choosing a husband than someone’s vague recommendation.
“And he doesn’t care a bit about marriage. He agreed so easily, dad! I don’t want a man with no backbone as a husband! He just took the order from his father like he had told him to go buy something from the store! I am worth a man who wants me for me. I’ll not be with a man who thinks that little of this issue, and that’s that!” at the end of the tirade her father widened his eyes in caution and Miryem sat back down unto her metal chair. She was a passionate person and sometimes went outside the boundaries of reason when speaking, she knew that much. Still, better than being a mindless slave.
“I have already said to Mehmet that you will consider this, and consider it you will,” her father started. Before she could retort, he lifted his hand in a soothing gesture. “You will consider for a month, and if you still say no by the end of it then the matter is dead. Agreed?”
“...Alright.” With that she excused herself and went to her university in the middle of town, carrying her backpack with her. Now all she had to do was ignore Masrur’s advancements for a month, refuse him at its end, and then go about her life. She was sure that Masrur was going to try his best to convince her to marry him, as his father would undoubtedly want. Maybe he’d even pull a page out of those lame Turkish dramas and wait for her outside her university. That would be far too embarrassing, Miryem decided. She walked along the trodden dirt path in the grass towards her campus of business and economics, built of rustic brown metal plates and blue glass in tribute to some artist or the other. The building was all lean curves and beauty, and she appreciated it quietly. She went to her large lecture hall, meant to house four hundred students but holding at least a hundred more, and listened to a lecture about the nuances of stock predictions. She chatted with her friends about the latest music and films, and had a friendly argument with the blonde haired Giorgia about some singer or the other. All the while, Miryem’s thoughts stayed on her rage against Masrur. The parents she could understand, for they came from a different land and a different time. He however, had no reason at all for being so meek in the face of that same thinking. It was just so backwards! Did he truly not care? Did he just want a slave, or a baby factory? Or was he just too weak to say no to his father? She snorted at the thought of that kind of person becoming Germany’s boxing champion. Next to her in the modern styled library, filled with rows of white tables, Giorgia asked her what was so funny, and she snapped back to reality, focusing on the open book before her. She couldn’t wait for Masrur to approach her so she could give him a piece of her mind.
A week later, Miryem waited still. It was Friday already, and despite not having seen any evidence of the youth trying to woo her, she had seen him as often as usual, when he went for runs or came by to buy milk from the store. Each time he had seen her the boxer had seemed surprised, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips pursing for but an instant before he composed himself. Miryem, of course, had given him a hard cold stare every single time, expectantly. Each time, she had been disappointed.
On the eve of that Friday, her father remarked to her absentmindedly that he was going to go watch Masrur’s boxing match. “What boxing match?” Miryem asked, her fork paused precariously in front of her mouth.
“It’s a ranking match. If he wins he can go up to eighth place on the nationals. I thought he would have given you tickets.”
As Mansur got ready to go out, she wondered the same thing herself. Why hadn’t Masrur even mentioned the match the day before when he dropped by for some groceries? That was no way to impress a girl, after all. Most boys relished showing off for far less.
Miryem ended up not watching the match on T.V, electing instead to chat with one of her friends on her phone about some meaningless thing or the other. After her father came back excited from the match he told her all about how Masrur had delivered a crushing victory in the third round. When her parents had gone to bed the girl felt like she could use some fresh air. She looked over to her large window, and saw the full moon shining brightly beyond, beckoning her towards its white round face. Never one to underestimate her instincts, she got dressed and headed to the park as she always did when her mind needed to be cleared. The city lights were now behind her, and there was nothing but pale moonlight to guide her to her usual bench, next to the orange tulips. She was surprised to see someone sitting there already, despite the late hour.
Masrur looked horrible. Bruises painted his face and he favoured his right side as if his ribs were injured. Miryem almost decided to walk past him or go back, but the boxer had already seen her and moved a bit on the bench to give her a respectful amount of space. She sat next to him, keeping her eyes on the tulips, on the starry sky, on the dirt path framed by tall trees. She looked everywhere except at his handsome beat up face. “I heard you won today,” She said after a moment of silence that had stretched far too long and thus turned as tense as a rubber band.
“Yes,” he replied simply, and when she waited for him to elaborate he kept his peace. For as long as she could remember, boys had always tried their hardest to impress girls they liked. For all intents and purposes, this man sitting next to her seemed entirely uninterested. She kept her eyes glued on the dirt path before them, looping around the park’s perimeter.
Miryem’s past anger at the passiveness of this boxer in the face of this arranged marriage resurfaced then, simmering quietly. “I heard he is also a ranker, so it must have been a tough fight. Dad said you won easily so I’m surprised you’re this beat up.” This was meant to be a jab, to provoke the fighter into an argument, but his answer surprised her.
“Yes,” he stated again, then after a minute and in a calm deep voice, “Boxers feel pain like everyone else. Our muscles are to keep the damage away, but the pain remains. We just learn to hide it better when we fight. This is why your father thought I was fine.”
By then Miryem was positively furious with Masrur for his lack of care, and in a seething voice she said “You learn to beat up people for a living, but don’t even say no to your father when he forces you into this?”
She brushed her hair out of her eyes furiously and stood up, just in time to hear him murmur, “Yes,” one final time. She had taken two steps away when he exclaimed “uh, Miryem!” The girl turned to him, looking him in his despicable face for the first time that night, and all he had to say was “I... like tulips.”
Miryem’s anger was driven to a boil now, and with a hissing voice she said, “I don’t care! Now you listen to me, I will never marry you, you hear me?” His eyebrows lifted again, and those bruised lips pursed. Was he surprised she was angry at him? What kind of person treats a marriage with this lack of interest and then expects the girl to fall head over heels for him? She left the hunched over boxer in his seat and went home to a fitful sleep filled with dreams where robots said “Yes” in a monotone voice.
For the next three weeks, Miryem did her best to avoid Masrur, which was to say she went to the back of the store when he dropped by to buy something. Her anger with him had turned quickly into seething hate after their short conversation at the park, and it had gotten to the point where she could not stand the sight of him. Still, he had not approached her at all after that night, thankfully, and her parents had gotten more and more fidgety
as the days went by without any changes in their daughter’s stance. They had not breached the subject with her, electing instead to give the student as much time and privacy as they could until the promised day.
That Thursday, Miryem was out in the park in her usual spot in the afternoon, watching the orange Tulip while silently congratulating herself on a job well done. One more day and she would be free of that useless boxer forever. It was just her, the streaming sunlight, and the trees. Behind her, where a large patch of grass lay, some children played football, yelling excitedly about each of their little plays as they went back and forth between two makeshift goals. Other than that, the only sound for a few hours was the chirping of birds as they flew about from tree to tree, doing things unnoticeable to humans but which undoubtedly constituted a daily routine for them. Then Miryem suddenly heard an incessant but faint sound, a crunch crunch that got louder and closer by the second. Looking towards the left where the sound came from, she saw a figure in sports clothes jogging towards her silently. Oh no, had he gotten that desperate? This wasn’t even where he did his roadwork usually. When he