I. She. We.

The way she looks at me makes me squirm. I want to be the teal silk of her hijab against the side of her round brown face.

She is radiant and confident. Her eyebrows should be framed and here I am, terrified when her fingers brush mine.

When we are alone she carefully takes off my hijab and undoes my low bun. I shake as she touches and fluffs my hair into a silky afro cloud.

"Your hair is getting so long. I'll braid it for you tonight."

I am so afraid.

She is peaceful and knitting while we watch anime.

I chew my nails to the quick.

She says.

"It will be alright. I love you."

I cry and cry when we pray.

I unwrap her hijab and run my fingers over the tiny coils of her hair.

I kiss the arc of the stretch marks on her ass and she laughs.

I kiss her lips when she sleeps so I can feel her tiny smile.

She makes tea and I kiss her warm fingers and tell her.

"I prayed for you. I love you."

I have to swallow my fear.

"I love you."

Together we speak the language of paradise. We speak with tongues made of love.

She buys me a ring and talks about fat brown babies.

I am not afraid.

I wear her ring and her last name.

I am huge and round, she rubs my back.

She whispers to me in bed that she hopes I stay milk fat and soft. She is mesmerized by the wobble when I walk.

She is my heart.

I hold her hand while we walk in the store.

The baby is fat and brown and loud.

We are mighty and beautiful, we are love. We are not afraid.

This was inspired by a couple I see around my neighborhood all the time. And a little experiment in a more minimalist stripped approach to a romantic story.