He drops his hands from my hips, grabs a box out of his pocket and gets down on one knee. I want to remember this moment for eternity; I take a deep breath in and slowly close my eyes to cherish this moment.

BY HEBA ABDELSHAKOUR

IMAGE BY GREIG SANDERS

See, there’s a problem with romantic movies where two characters who come from completely different lives become lovers. The songs where they finally find each other and the stories that build this entire world make you feel personally invested in the characters. When they laugh, you laugh; when they cry, you cry; when they ache, you ache; you are them and they are you. Here’s what people don’t tell you—it isn’t real. The stories aren’t real, and neither is that love. The can’t-eat-can’t-sleep-can’t-be-without-you love—it’s not genuine. At least, it’s never been true for me.  

“Can I please have John from grocery to aisle 12? That’s John to aisle 12,” a high-pitched teenage voice on the intercom interrupts my inner musing that’s happening between the frozen peas and fries. Not to anyone’s surprise, I zoned out in a grocery store. A place where people are rushing to get from point A to point B, where they forget to smile, at least with their eyes. They're so focused on the task of picking the crunchiest apple, the hardest tomatoes, the smoothest oranges, that they don’t realize that I'm standing right beside them—lost in my own fantasies. This isn’t the proper condition for a real love story to begin.  

I keep reminding myself to focus on picking the groceries, but sometimes it’s so damn hard. 

As I look up from my cart, I see him. His warm auburn eyes, brown curly hair, defined shoulders and big arms and—wow, he’s at least 6 feet tall.  

Stop. Is that a uniform? Is he a firefighter? I can do a firefighter. 

As we lock eyes the world stops turning; time stops ticking; our hearts stop beating. The longer we look, the more our souls progressively connect and it feels like we’ve known each other for our entire lives. This is the beginning of the rest of our lives. This is our story; this is how we start.  

I have the courage to introduce myself, “Hi, I’m Heba.”  

He replies, “Hey, I’m Tim.” This is the ultimate beginning of our love story.  

As we continue talking, we realize that we are simply perfect for each other. We both love sandwiches that are crispy on the outside, yet dripping with sauce and of course, without tomatoes. We have the same taste in music and have the same sense of quirky humour. Our values align and our cultures are a bit different, but we can make this work. He is my can’t-eat-can’t-sleep-can’t-be-without-you love story.  

We leave the supermarket with each other's numbers and have barely been apart since. As I get to know him more, I fall harder and faster. Months pass by, the seasons change and we spend our first Thanksgiving together at his parent’s house. They are a loving couple, everything I ever wanted. From the way they look at each other, to them finishing each other's sentences—they’re simply perfect. The house smells like fresh bread and love. I walk into the kitchen and see his parents dancing to Celine Dion’s, “My Heart Will Go On,” while the potatoes are boiling, the peas are cooking, and the turkey is roasting.  

Tim takes my hand and we dance alongside them. He pulls me aside and softly whispers in one ear, “I love you and I want to do this with you. I want an eternity where we laugh and cry, fight and make love and I want to have a bunch of mini-yous run around our house. I want to spend the lazy Sundays with you and battle the hectic Monday mornings together. I want to spend my life with you dancing in the kitchen.”  

This is all I’ve ever wanted. 

He drops his hands from my hips, grabs a box out of his pocket and gets down on one knee. I want to remember this moment for eternity; I take a deep breath in and slowly close my eyes to cherish this moment. I exhale and think about how this will be known as the beginning of the most romantic chapter of my life. Then I hear, “Miss, you’re in the way.” He points to the freezer behind me. 

I move sideways. He grabs a bag of fries and walks away.  

Yup, it’s all one-sided again. God damn it, all he wants is fries and I’m waiting for a ring. I gotta get it together. I don’t even know his real name, and honestly, maybe he thinks I’m a freak now—standing in the frozen food section, letting his presence melt my heart. 

I get out of the godforsaken aisle and grab the rest of my groceries, trying not to romanticize every casual encounter I have in the grocery store with the obnoxious beeping cash sound in the background. This isn’t Jane the Virgin where we have glowing hearts and dramatic music playing as we quickly pass each other, slowly grazing our hands.  

We look back at each other and our eyes lock. He looks confused while I’m in awe of his beauty. Wait! Does he look confused? What’s the expression on his face? Curiosity, maybe? No, not again. Just keep walking. Keep walking. And I do.  

I make my way out of the store and the Canadian winter air slaps my face so hard that I do an awkward waddle to the car and open the trunk. Great, I forgot to lock the car again. Honestly, one day this habit is gonna bite me in the ass. I start unloading the groceries.  

Not far from me I hear, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you fucking crazy?” I would not want to be the person he’s screaming at, so I look up like the nosy person I am and he’s staring at me. Directly at me!  

Is he screaming at me? I hesitantly point to myself while I’m staring at him and he says, “Yes, you! What are you doing?”  

Now that I’m certain that he is yelling at me, it takes every ounce of my being not to yell back. My blood boils, my eyebrows furrow and my jaw clenches. I do what I do best, I give him my wide-eyed, straight-faced, curse-you-to-death stare. Honestly, it probably wasn’t that scary and I probably looked like a blobfish, but please, let's ignore that point.  

“Oh my gosh, Tim!” I say in a loud shrieking voice.  

And now he’s the confused one!  

All he sees is a crazy lady yelling a random name at him like it's an inside joke he’s supposed to understand. 

I don't even know if his name is actually Tim! What am I doing? 

It was harder for me to recognize him without a mask and that is not what I imagined him to look like. I’m a little disappointed—not gonna lie. Stop. Focus Heba, focus. Your can’t-eat-can’t-sleep-can’t-be-without-you love story that began between the fries and peas is yelling at you. Listen to what he’s saying.  

“That’s my car!”  

That’s his car? Shit, this isn’t even my car. Shit, shit, shit. I was daydreaming again. I didn’t notice the neon orange construction hat or the hideous tool bag that most definitely didn’t belong to me. Oh man, Tim isn’t a firefighter! He works in construction.  

I can work with that.  

Heba Abdelshakour is a Justice studies student at the University of Guelph Humber. She began creative writing in grade 12, and it was her way of understanding her emotions and what she was going through. Writing spoken word pieces, especially ones that people can relate to, is where her heart lies. Being unconditionally herself, feeling all her emotions, and being unapologetic for taking her space is what her mama taught her to do, and she does it proudly.

Image: Planetfall

Edited for publication by Nupur Singh, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.