Crossed Lines ...Part 3 ...The Beauty of Storms

I just don't wish you rain, beloved,
I wish you the beauty of storms...

East Meets West

I'm tired of having to navigate around cultural barriers pursuing a romantic relationship with Yasmin Saleh when she's under the influence of someone opposed to me.

Yasmin's friendship with Hillary Notely, a strident feminist, is undermining our relationship.

I know Yasmin is already conflicted about getting involved with a man outside her faith just as I know fighting a battle on two fronts is a no-win situation...

so my chances of forming a bond with Yasmin seem slim and our future bleak.

Well, such were my thoughts after I last left Yasmin, convinced I'd never see her again.

The following week seemed interminable. I occasionally saw Yasmin from afar, but always in the company of the bristling Hillary.

By the end of the week, any optimism regarding a relationship with Yasmin disintegrated into hopeless despair.

I forced myself to face the facts—despite a physical attraction between us, any chance of romance seemed extremely remote.

So, that's how I found myself alone and depressed on a Friday night.

I decided to go for a walk hoping it would distract me from my pain and ended up in Kensington Village sitting at an outdoor café sipping coffee and attempting to read Great Expectations.

The irony of the title did not escape me.

In the midst of my musings a soft voice whispered.

“Hello, Callum.” I looked up into Yasmin’s lovely face. “May I join you?”

I was out of my seat in an instant.

“Please do,” I said, gesturing to the vacant chair opposite mine.

“Can I order you a drink—coffee or tea, perhaps?”

She smiled. “Coffee will be fine.”

I motioned for the waitress to take her order.

While we were sitting there, Soft blue searchlights probed the clouds above us and the CN Tower loomed, illumined in the distance. A slight breeze stirred the few stray tendrils of hair that escaped from beneath her veil.

I feel we’ve done this before—been together the two of us, beneath the stars. Perhaps it’s the hazy half-remembered joy of one of my dreams.

Yasmin stares at me sadly.

“I want to apologize for that last conversation in the restaurant. Hillary doesn’t speak for me.”

“I know that,” I smile bleakly.

“Are you and Carolynes seeing each other?”

I shake my head. “No—nothing like that. We’re just friends—no flames of romance between us. Just two people who enjoy each other’s company.”

“I guess some people still manage to do that.”

I’m staring at her, enthralled by her beauty. The stars above us are daubed with the same fiery paint as the lacquer upon her lips.

“You and Carolynes would probably get along very well,” I tell her, “she’s very accepting. I mean, I suppose it comes with her profession—her field is Race Relations. I’m sure you’d find her very open and tolerant—respectful of your values.”

She laughed. “I think you might be surprised by what secrets lie in a woman’s heart. She probably reads Sheikh romances, fantasizing about a Muslim prince falling in love with her and embracing her western values.”

I suddenly got defensive

“What’s wrong with that—don’t you think it’s possible?”

“What—that clichéd erotic fantasy of love in the desert and all differences reconciled? Yes, I can see it now—the two of them riding off into the sunset. Well, It might happen with a Scottish highlander, but an Arab Sheikh? Highly unlikely, I think.”

I ignored the cynical reference to The Outlander and decided to press my point.

“What about the reverse—an Arab woman falling in love with a western man?”

“Really Callum? That’s as unlikely as rain in the desert.”

“Yes, probably,” I commiserate. “But all you think rain, is not. Behind the veil angels sometimes weep.”

Her eyes grew huge. “You know Rumi?”she asked, surprised that I quoted the line.

“I know this much—if you are truly seeking love you also have to find all the barriers within yourself you’ve built against it.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “Very impressive, Callum, but are you quoting the poet, or are telling me this yourself?”

“I’m saying that whatever brought me here tonight has torn away veils from my eyes. Can you let go of your veils?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not sure I could ever bring myself to submit to you.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” I whispered. “I would kneel and kiss the ground before you.”

Can one night in a lifetime of nights make a difference? Perhaps… or possibly it can at the very least, mark a beginning.

It’s true, we speak different languages; say different prayers. But impossible as it seems, I’m asking God for her.

The religion of the heart is intimate but I know the future is open to requests.

As for Yasmin and me, our lives began that very night. We talked until late and finally kissed just as we felt the first drops of rain.

Later, I walked home joyfully through splashing streets, the wet brush of rain on my cheeks, and reminders of her kisses everywhere.

Another line from Rumi rolled through my mind:

I feel like the earth, astonished at fragrance borne in the air, made pregnant with mystery from a drop of rain.

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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