Before leaving her room, she paused at the small table beside the bed. She lifted a wooden frame holding a photo of her and a man: the two of them, side by side, smiling beneath the bloom of a poinciana tree. Along the edge, the words Summer 2021 were written. She gazed at it with a soft smile, traced her finger across the glass, then returned it gently to its place.
She dressed and went out to walk with him in the garden near her mother’s house. The sun broke through gray clouds, the grass still wet from a passing shower. They sat on the wooden bench beside the fountain. From his coat pocket, he pulled a wrapped piece of chocolate and, smiling, said:
- I don’t see how we’ll spend our lives together if you never learn to love chocolate.
She smiled, took it from him, and answered:
- And I don’t see how you’ll marry me when you can’t stand mint tea.
- I never liked mint, true… but I’m starting to get used to it. Just as I got used to you.
She laughed, then fell quiet. Tilting her head slightly, she whispered:
- Sherif… before you, there was no one. No relationships, no love, no experiences. I thought none of it mattered… until I met you.
He looked at her for a long while, took her hand, and held it between his palms.
- I know, he said.
After a pause, she murmured:
- Maybe I was late, or hesitant, or afraid… But now… I’m not afraid anymore.
He smiled.
- Neither am I.
On the morning of her wedding night, she set water to boil. She poured it into a glass cup, stirred in tea and a little sugar, then carried it to the balcony. Leaning toward the clay pot of mint, she lowered her face, breathed in its fragrance, and plucked two sprigs. Her fingers lingered on the leaves before she slipped the larger sprig into her tea and held the smaller one in her hand, inhaling its scent between sips. When the cup was empty, she laid the smaller sprig beside it.
That evening, Sherif’s laughter and smile lit up the wedding hall. She laughed like a child giddy with joy. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, pressed her palm in his. The lights dimmed, the hum of congratulations faded. Before leaving, her mother came to adjust her veil and whispered something only she could hear.
In the hotel suite, he slipped off his jacket, lifted her in his arms. She laughed, hid her face in his neck. She closed her eyes as he lowered her gently onto the bed.
By morning, she stirred. He had risen, dressed, and now sat on a chair, staring at the floor. His voice was low, uncertain:
- Laila… am I not the f—?
The words broke off. She said nothing. Her hand shifted faintly over the blanket, her eyes fixed on a vague point. Silence stretched. At last, he spoke again:
- We should see a doctor. I need to be sure.
She stood at the bedside. No tears, no protest, no defense. When he stepped into the dressing room, his eyes caught on his ID card lying on the table. He picked it up, slid it into his wallet, and left.
Moments later, the door opened again.
- Come on, the appointment’s in half an hour.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke. He left first.
At the clinic, the doctor sat across from her. A spacious room, white walls hung with abstract paintings. The doctor—a woman in her fifties with a commanding calm—asked Sherif to wait outside.
- I’d like to speak with her alone first.
He sat in the corridor on a brown leather seat, between a woman rocking her sleeping child and a man scrolling his phone. His eyes never left the examination room door.
Inside, after a brief exam, the doctor removed her gloves, looked directly into Laila’s eyes, and said:
- There’s no need to worry… you’re still a virgin. Some women remain so even after marriage.
She offered a short smile, then added:
- It’s more common than you think. But it takes patience and understanding—from both sides.
She wrote in the file, pressed a button, and had her assistant bring Sherif in. When he entered, she stood, looked at him with professional firmness, and said:
- Everything is fine. Nothing to be concerned about.
They left the clinic in silence. In the elevator, he turned toward her, tried to hold her hand. She let it hang loose.
- I’m sorry. he whispered. I shouldn’t have doubted you.
She looked at him, then walked away.
That evening, her mother knocked softly before entering. Laila lifted her eyes and murmured:
- Yes, Mother, I’m fine.
She stepped out to the balcony, pushing the glass door quietly behind her. To the right sat an old wooden chair, its thin cushion faded and sun-worn, its shape collapsed. Beside it, an ashtray filled with butts, and a glass with dried traces of tea, pale mint leaves floating lifeless on its surface. She stood before the chair. She did not sit. She nudged the glass slightly. Only the whisper of wind through the nearby mint broke the silence. Her face remained still, her eyes wandering between the edge of the chair and the small table with one missing leg. She looked neither inside nor at the sky.
At dawn, she boiled water again, poured it into a cup. From the mint pot, she plucked a single sprig, dropped its leaves into the tea, and drank. Her face did not change. Her voice made no sound. The leaves floated, colorless, until nothing remained of them. She set the empty cup on the table and walked away from the balcony.
