I came to my hometown to take rest, to be free from the scattered files on my office table, the light eliminating from my laptop screen that can make me go blind in the long run, long hours of agonizingly dull meetings and on top of that, picky as fuck customers. Everything is so tiring and frustrating that it pulls my hair and that's why I asked my boss, more like pleaded him, to accept my leave letter. Being one of the most productive employees of your company can be beneficial at times like this and that's why I got leave for almost a month, after much convincing.

But the news that awaits me as I step into my home after one year of work life in New Zealand is even more stifling. I wish I listened to my intuition when I woke up the day for my flight home. I wish I took the initiative of the new project instead of passing it onto my colleague and heading home. I wish the gust of wind that blew across my ears on my way home in Uber whispered me that I'm heading straight into a pothole where I can't think of an escape.

My parents want me to get married, especially my grandma, who's on her deathbed. Grandma's last wish is to see me getting married and having kids so she can die peacefully.

Really? What does my offspring have to do with her death?

Soon after my graduation, I applied for a job in the seventh best country in the world, New Zealand. As an architect, my life is hectic yet enjoyable. A well reputed company, good salary, reliable and fun colleagues, two best friends who are my brothers, weekend parties and hook ups. The life I'm living now is the best, the exact one I want. I want to enjoy my life to the fullest as a bachelor, embracing my single life of work, partying and giving one on weekends. I love my single life in New Zealand and want everything to stay as it is, not calling for a wife as my parents want. Getting married, starting a family, being a husband and a father is not for me. When guys of my age see that as their future, I can only vision it as a burden. A burden that my great grandparents carried and passed it to their kids- my grandparents, and they passed it to their kids- my parents, who are ready to pass that stressful onus to me.

What is wrong with being single? Can't a guy live without a wife? Can't a guy live without children? Can't a guy live without a better half as they say?

The lady lying on deathbed, my grandma, did a good job of pouring out her sentiments and drilling it into my parent's mind. As the result of one of the most cliché moments of life, I'm driving to the house for the first stage of the concept I despise the most- marriage. I'm going to see the girl my parents selected for me. And they expect me to be a "good" boy who shuts my mouth and listens to their every instruction. As if!

On the way to the girl's house, I get to know from my mother that her name is Parisa. My aunt, my mom's sister, saw her at a wedding function they attended last month and told my mom about her. She also adds that my aunt said the girl is pretty and well mannered, as she was sitting in a corner while her cousins were shaking their booties.

Sitting in a corner doesn't necessarily mean she's well mannered!

I want to tell that to my aunt's face but I know it is bootless, as my aunt is the biggest boomer ever that can make you hate the very existence of humans.

While I wait for the gate to open at the entrance of the girl's house, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel impatiently, I see a figure near a window on the second floor of their house. I doped out that it's Parisa, as she's wearing an orange salwar kameez. And guess what? Orange is a color I hate the most as I think it's too bright that can make one's eyes sore.

First impression is the best impression! I thought to myself as I continue to watch her- she moving away from the window hurryingly, making me chuckle internally.

"As-salamu alaykum," her father and brother greets as we enter the house.

"Wa ʿalaykumu s-salam," me and my parents greet them as I shake my hands with the girl's father and brother.

Her family is good. They are really nice and their hospitality makes my heart warm, especially as that of her father's. He's a good man, trying to make us comfortable by cracking jokes and he instantly builds a bond with my father, one who is a lively person but turns to a strict and stern man when he is in his professional mode. The same goes with my mom. I don't see the girl's mom as she's quite busy in the kitchen along with Mohsin, her brother. Well, not like I want to meet and greet everyone anyways.

"So, Cyrus, right?" her father asks me and I nod my head, forcing a smile. "Where in New Zealand are you working, son?"

"Auckland. I work for A-line Blueprints," I answer.

Her father then asks me about my life in New Zealand to which I keep my answers short and crisp. I mostly stay quiet and only talk when prompted, letting my parents take over the job of talking and laughing to make the aura less awkward. I tap my feet anxiously on the marble floor beneath me, as I don't want to be here, in the middle of these people who I call family and going to call family, if things go in favor of my parents.

"There she is!"

I hear the girl's father saying by looking at his side and from the corner of my eye, I can see a short in height figure wrapped up in the color that makes me go colorblind. I don't turn to her side, much less look at her.

"As-salamu alaykum."

I hear her soft voice greeting us.

"Wa ʿalaykumu s-salam," I mumble under my breath while others greet her back happily.

"Masha' Allah," my mom says and that kindles me to take a glance of her.

"Oh, so this is Parisa. Beautiful!" my dad says the same and my expectations climb one more step up.

Is she that beautiful?

"Come here, Parisa," my mom calls to which she takes steps to her, dad giving her a seat by shifting next to me. "I'm Nabeesa, Cyrus' mother," my mom introduces herself.

"And I'm Hameed, this guy's father," says my dad following mom and at that moment, we look at each other.

She isn't as beautiful as my parents said. She isn't even my type. Her skin is olive, a pigment of light brown to moderate brown. She's a bit chubby with curls springing out of her hijab. She even has a light mustache! Her face is covered with a few small pimples and a big one on her left cheek, small bumps on her forehead and visible blackheads on both sides of her button nose.

It doesn't take that much pain to take care of your skin!

Her lips are small, exactly the contrast of what I prefer. A perfect jawline is alluring for me but I doubt this girl has one. She's covered up like a fucking nun so I can't possibly figure out. I get that she's not wearing any make-up, not even eyeliner or lipstick. She's as natural as breathing but just not my type. She's nowhere near Savannah!

The dizziness in her sable eyes that are piercing into my onyx ones, the pink tint on her cheeks that are covered with a few dark spots, her fiddling fingers and the sweat forming on her upper lip tells me that she's nervous. And me being the natural flirt, passed her a smirk to which both her eyebrows shouted 'What the fuck, dude?'

And I like it!

"If you two have anything to talk or ask personally, go on," my dad suggests. "We can give them their space, can't we?"

Dad asks Parisa's father to which he agrees after a few seconds of silence and her father asks her to take me to their courtyard.

I get up and follow her silently to the courtyard. On my way, I see her mom and another girl in front of the kitchen. They smile at me and I return one. I notice her mom mouthing 'Don't ruin it' to her.

Mothers!

The girl standing next to her, pumps her fist up by saying something which I can't quite make out.

We enter the courtyard. I'm expecting her to say something but nothing. The air is tense and stiff, making room only for awkwardness and not talking or even breathing. I just stand there with my hands tucked inside my jeans pockets and looking at the flowers they have planted. It's beautiful, if I must say, with orchids in mini round plastic containers hanging from a long thick nylon rope, bourbon roses embellished on corners and bamboo sticks arranged neatly as a wall. A torn deck chair and a park bench that is rusty adds more ethereal beauty to that small garden in the house. It surely screams middle class thing but in elegancy.

I suck up my lungs as the fragrance hits my nostrils. The tranquility makes me want to stay silent for some more time but as I see Parisa wiping the sweat beads off her face with her shawl, I know I have to cut the tense air lingering around us.

I cough, gaining her attention as she turns around and faces me. We look at each other for a few seconds, her face void of expression.

"I'm Cyrus Hamid," I say.

She nods her head slightly before saying, "Parisa."

"Pretty name," I compliment to which she passes me a flash smile.

Another five minutes of awkwardness and tension passes by before I decide to break the ice again.

"So Parisa, what are your hobbies?"

A cliché question!

"Uhmm..I like cycling, photography and watching movies, English only. I also play Among Us."

"Mm," I hum and nod my head.

I expect her to ask me what my hobbies are so that I can say about my weekend parties and hook ups and maybe she will back out from this proposal? But no, she doesn't utter a word.

Weird!

"Do you cook?" I ask her.

And now I sound like a typical guy! Well, anything to annoy her.

"No." She shakes her head.

Hearing her answer, I stare at her with a smile playing on my lips to which she raises her brows and asks, "What?"

"I didn't expect you to be this honest," I say, as cool as a cucumber.

"What?" she asks, her eyes narrow and chin poking out.

"You know, most girls tend to lie about these things because they think if they say they don't know how to cook, they aren't qualified to be a wife," I say to which she looks at me and scoffs in disbelief. "I know that because I have seen it. It happened to my cousin sister. She didn't know how to cook but she lied as her mom, my aunty, told her to."

It happened three years ago. I was there when her husband came to see her and I overheard my aunt's and my cousin's conversation. My aunt, the one who came up with this proposal and is playing a match maker, told her daughter to lie if he asks her about cooking. My cousin sister was that one person who didn't enter the kitchen, except to fill her water bottle to keep herself hydrated for good skin. And then she lied, married that guy who asked her the typical question like they expected and now she's settled in Oman. I wonder what she's feeding her husband and their three kids. Well, not like he can dump all the responsibilities on her. If he can, he can also cook.

I'm brought back by the voice of the girl in front of me, who looks kind of furious hearing me.

"Firstly, that's ridiculous. Marrying by lying. Seriously, that desperate? Secondly, if that guy wants someone to cook for him, why does he have to marry? He can hire a maid or a cook. And lastly, that guy has to be special for her to lie just to marry him," she says, ticking off with her fingers which I find attractive in a way.

Her last point makes me arch my eyebrow challengingly and ask her, "And you think I'm not special?"

"No. Of course, no!"

I'm taken aback hearing her response. I'm pretty famous in my company with co-workers hitting on me regardless of gender and then there's this girl, from a small city, telling me I'm not special right to my face.

"Wow! You're honest, like brutally honest," I say, chuckling.

"Thanks! I'll take that as a compliment," she says, giving me a cheeky grin.

"Oh, it indeed is!" I say, smiling to which she rolls her eyes at me, which I find attractive in a way, again.

"Cyrus, let's go?" my mom comes into the picture and asks me.

I already love my mom and now, I love her more!

"Yeah, coming," I say and turn to Parisa.

"Anything you wanna ask? To know?"

She's about to ask me something but refrains herself. She shakes her head and turns to my mother and gives her a bright smile. My mother walks towards her and plants a kiss on her forehead, her bumpy forehead.

"I'm happy to meet you Parisa. I like you," she says and gives her a ring box.

"This is for you."

My heart drops right there. My mom. She likes this girl. She likes this girl called Parisa. And I can already see a marriage life that's not going to last more than a year.

My mom caresses Parisa's face as she thanks her. She turns around and walks away, leaving me and Parisa alone.

"I'll see you again, my habibi," I say, making her astound.

"Wh-what?"

I say nothing but give her a smirk and walk away.

Habibi means my love in Arabic. I know she will be astound when she hears that endearment and that's why I take a shoulder glance, to see her typing on a mobile. Maybe she's searching for the meaning of habibi and I'm sure it's going to make her blood boil even more, which is exactly what I want.

From the look she gave me while sitting in the living room, I get that she isn't interested in this marriage like me and I just had to do the brilliant job of making her hate me with my questions. But when my mom said she liked Parisa, I understood there isn't a way out of this, not anymore. She thinks Parisa is perfect for me. But it doesn't matter as I have a ploy set in my mind for my imperfect habibi.

I will marry Parisa in front of my parents, relatives and other fucking people who attends wedding just to guzzle food. She doesn't like me and I don't like her. Our feelings are mutual and that's what makes me think she's the imperfectly perfect one for me. Perfect one to convince my parents to stop their compulsion and leave me in peace.

Once I tie the knot with her, I'll take her to New Zealand. After one and a half or two years, we will be getting a mutual divorce and going separate ways. But until then, I have to keep her hatred for me- not let her fall in love with me or see me as a husband but as an enemy, someone who she wants to get rid of under any sun or moon, under any weather or time. And I'll make sure she will hate me more than I hate her.

"Just wait till you land in New Zealand, my habibi!"