WHAT HAPPENS, HAPPENS / MOHAMED & DYLAN @cogiito
Let it be known: Mohamed Chalthoum was not the kind of person to get drunk on a work night, before a very important meeting with a new client. Let it be even more known: Mohamed Chalthoum was not the kind of person to get drunk on purpose on a work night, before a very important meeting with a new client. However, as it was, special days called for special occasions. Special days meant heading out to a bar alone because his head was pounding, in the hopes of filling some existential void within his soul or some fucking shit like so because he was certainhis soul had gone onto another plane of existence. Special days meant abandoning work early because he could stand no more of his old client’s nagging in his ears. Special days meant that Mohamed could break his own rules a little bit, and head out for some refreshments because doing all the work would give him a fucking meltdown.
Thus explained his being in a bar on a Thursday night, when he had a very important meeting with a new client the next day. Thus explained the drink in his hand, even when he knew he should not be holding it. Thus explained why he made sure to turn his phone off — not to silent mode, but completely off — so that no one could fucking disturb him as he distracted himself from work. If he didn’t, Mohamed knew surely that soon-to-be Mrs. Reyes would chop his ear off just by nag, nag, nagging into the phone. She’d already said all her requirements thrice! Did she really have to repeat everything four more times every fucking hour? Her wedding wasn’t even that close! It was in three and a half months, for crying out loud! Surely, she could do with easing up on the tension a little bit!
But, maybe, it did not explain anything at all. Maybe nothing explained anything, and Mohamed was simply looking for ways to stop working at this time of the hour. Maybe nothing explained anything, and it was simply Mohamed’s body and mind taking their toll on him. His friends always did say he worked too much — which he did. Mohamed knew — as anyone who knew him knew — that he worked too much. Just a tad bit. (A whole lot of tad bits, that was.) Maybe this was his soul’s — said soul that had transferred onto a different fucking plane of existence — way of telling him that he was tired; maybe this was his soul’s way of telling him that he needed to let the reigns go a little bit and allow himself to breathe.
Little did Mohamed know, however, of the events that would transpire here in this little bar on this very night. Little did he know of the important person he would meet tonight, and just how much weight they would carry over in each other’s lives. Little did he know that this night was as this night was meant to be, because Mohamed did believe in meant-to-bes and happy endings. In soulmates and in forever-afters. In love and in greater things. Little did he know that this was not just his soul telling him he was tired, but rather his soul knowing, knowing, knowing that there was someone out there in store for him. Little did he know. Little did he know. (In moments later, his soul would just understand. But, for now, little did he know.)
As it was, Mohamed would not have even looked to the man that had taken the seat beside him, had the man not bumped his shoulder against Mohamed’s.
The man did, though, so Mohamed noticed him. With his familiar goofy smile on his lips, Mohamed said, “Are you going to apologize, or am I going to have to forgive you out of the goodness of my heart?” A small chuckle escaped him.
