Love Shot X Shot of Love

Cry again X Nangis

Mr. Ahmad caught me crying outside on the fifth leg. The gentle tears broke the barriers I tried unsuccessfully to build when I sat down again in the scorching heat. He stopped his carriage much to my shame, and persuaded the cause of my tears from me.

"You know I wouldn't judge you for crying, little Zara."He spoke with deep instability while squatting to reduce altitude differences.

Even though he didn't see it, his words always seemed gentle, no matter how rudely they spoke.

I tried to dodge, but eventually admitted defeat, and explained the cause of my tears.

My twelfth birthday, and my mother worked shifts twice. And my dad, who doesn't work on any given day, sits on the couch motionless, eyes focused on the TV.

And he forgot. He forgot it was my birthday.

He took Muiz reminding him to get a Happy Anniversary out of his mouth.

"Sorry everyone, I got a lot of my thoughts, it just slipped. Look, I'm too beat out of all the hours I have to work, so we're gonna do something this weekend, okay princess?"He said without letting my life pass me by.

Mr. Ahmad seemed annoyed by my explanation. He did not hesitate before urging me to take my brother and I out for ice cream. We took the Mac, which immediately told him about my obsession with my favorite living room.

"Ah yes! It was the best ice cream ever!"Muiz. Mac rolled his eyes ... well .. basically a stalker at this point.

"It's really far away. We can go to Baskin Robins or something."I cut quickly, trying not to be more of a burden than I already felt I was.

"Pull directions, Mac."That's all he said. And he's not someone I would argue with.

It ended up being one of my best birthdays. Even with my brother together, we laughed so hard all night while engaging in sweet ice cream and creamiest there. Mr. Ahmad never pressured us to hurry. He sits contently, almost popping amused hearts, as we goofed around like our young teens. And after the late night is over, I get out of Mr. Ahmad car, look back to say, "Thank you for bringing us tonight, Mr. Ahmad.”

The miniscule, a twitch hardly the shape of her lips did not go unnoticed by myself when she switched in her seat to face me. "Don't worry. Oh, and why don't you stop calling me TN. Ahmadis? Not the old one, little Zara. Just say Ahmad.”

I stalled in the drive after that for longer than the average person. My sister's out of the inside.

"Ahmad."I allowed the name to slip gently from my lips, like it was too precious to speak rudely.

To be honest, I didn't really see Mr. Ahm... Ahmad. It's just that when I do, those seconds get stuck with me annoyingly, again sweetly. I especially saw it when I visited the garage with a Mac.

Xxxxxxxx

“You know I’m not gonna judge you for crying, Little Zara.” He spoke with deep fluidity while crouched down to less the difference in height.

Even when he didn’t look it, his words always seen gentle, no matter how coarsely they’re spoken.

I tried to evade, but suddenly adjusted defeat, and explained the reason for my shed tears.

My twelfth birthday, and my mom worked a double shift. And my dad, who didn’t work that specific day, sat on the couch unmoving, eyes focused on the TV.

And he forgot. He forgotten it was my birthday.

It took Muiz reminding him to get even a simple Happy Birthday from his mouth.

“Sorry guys, I got so much on my mind, it just slipped through. Listen, I’m too fucking beat from all the hours I got to work, so we’ do something this weekend, alright princess?” He said without sparing me a glory.

Mr. Ahmad seen irritated by my exploration. He didn’t hesitate before insisting on taking my brother and I out for ice-cream. We picked up Mac, who immediately told him about my obsession with my favorite parlor.

“Ah yeah! It’s the best ice cream ever!” Chirped muiz. Mac rolling her eyes at her. well.

“It’s really far away. We can just go to Baskin Robins or something.” I interject rapidly, trying not to be more of a burden than I already felt I was.

“Pull up the directions, Mac.” Was all he said. And he’s not someone I would ever argue with.

It ended up being one of my best birthdays. Even with my brother along, we laughed so hard all night while indulging in the sweetest and creamiest ice cream there is. Mr. Ahmad didn’t once pressure us to hurry. He sat contently, almost appearing amused, as we goofed around like the young teens we were. And after the late night was over, I climbed out of Mr. Ahmad car, looking back to say, “Thank you for taking us tonnage, Mr. Ahmad.”

The miniscule, almost nonexistent twitch of his lips did’t go unnoticed by myself when he shifted in his seat to face me. “No worries. Oh, and why don’t you quit calling me Mr. Ahmadis? Not that old, Little Zara. Just say Ahmad.”

I stalled in the drive after that for longer than a normal person should. My brother already off inside.

“Ahmad.” I allowed the name to slip gently out of my lips, like it was too precious to be spoken to roughly.

Truthfully, I didn’t actually see Mr. Ahm. Ahmad. It’s just that when I did, the moments stuck with me annoyingly, yet sweetly. I just saw him when I visited the garage with Mac.