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A man helping his pregnant wife down the aisle looks over at us, so Sarfaraz asks, “Where is everyone going?”
“There’s been another delay with the second bus coming to get us,” the man explains. “But the bus driver has a new plan. Apparently, we’re close enough to a rest stop, so the driver wants us to walk there. Once we get there, they’ll call Ubers to take us to a nearby village where we can comfortably wait for another bus.”
“What about our luggage?” I ask.
“The bus driver said it’d get delivered to the bus station in Karachi.”
Sarfaraz thanks the man, who continues down the aisle. He dips his head toward the aisle. “Do you want to go, then?”
I peek out the window. In the distance ahead, people are already making their way along the dirt-stained road. I turn back to Sarfaraz. “If it’s what the bus driver is saying, then we should.”
We grab our stuff and make our way down the aisle. When we get to the front, I notice a gap between the bottom step and the ground. I brace myself for the jump I’ll have to make. Sarfaraz goes first, and to my surprise, he turns around and offers me a hand. I hesitate but carefully accept. Tingles flush my skin as I brace myself and step all the way down and onto the dirt road. His hand lingers in my own for a moment before he pulls it away.
He puts his back to me, and I glance down at my hand. I flex my fingers for a moment before shaking the nerves off.
We start following the other groups of people walking in front of us. Sarfaraz and I make light conversation as we walk, but it quickly fades into silence because it’s too much effort to keep up talking in the heat. The air is much cooler outside than it was on the bus, but it’s still disgustingly hot. I twist my hair into a knot at the back of my head, and it provides some relief. We eventually make it to the pit stop the man on the bus told us about; it’s a place where buses can stop to get gas, or truck drivers can rest if they’re too tired to keep going.
The cars that are supposed to take us to a nearby village aren’t here yet, so we have no choice but to keep waiting. There isn’t really a place to sit, so I’m preparing myself mentally to keep standing when Sarfaraz reaches into his bag, pulls out the red sweater he wore on the plane, and sets it on the ground. He smooths the material down so it’s flat, then sits down. When he’s situated, he looks up at me. “We might be waiting a while.” He pats the small spot next to him. “You can join me, if you want.”
On the one hand, I don’t know if it’s a good choice to sit so close to Sarfaraz, not after what I felt when he helped me off the bus. On the other, I’m too tired to keep standing. I lower myself to the ground next to him. My side brushes his, and I edge away.
I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees. Right as I do so, however, my stomach growls and its alarmingly loud. The hunger gnawing at my insides reminds me that I didn’t eat much on the plane ride to Islamabad. I thought I’d be able to grab something while waiting for the bus, or I’d suck it up and wait until I got to Karachi to eat something. But now that we’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s like my stomach’s remembered that it’s empty. Pain pinches my abdomen, and I run my palms over it, trying to soothe my body into relaxing. I’ve already experienced one bad stomach reaction on this trip; I don’t want another.
Sarfaraz stares at the action. I go still, a blush coloring my ears. “I didn’t eat on the plane.”
His eyes suddenly light up, and he reaches into his own bag. With a triumphant grin, he produces two packs of airplane peanuts. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
I splutter out a laugh. “No, I’m not.”
Wordlessly, he holds out one of the packets, and I take it from him. We eat in silence. I’m so hungry I want to shove the whole bag down my throat, but I eat piece by piece, making each bite last. While we snack, the sky continues to darken, until it blackens completely around us.
Once we’re done eating, I lie down, staring upward at all the tiny stars sprinkled across the sky. Usually there’s too much smog in my city, so we rarely get to see them.
“I’ve always loved astronomy.” Sarfaraz’s voice breaks into my thoughts. I peek up at him but stay lying down. He looks down at me, the beginning of a smile on his face. “When I was younger, my dad, my brother, and I would go camping a lot. We would fish, roast marshmallows over the fire, find constellations in the sky for hours. My stepmom refused to go because she hates nature, but she always loved cooking up whatever we brought home.” He sighs dreamily, like he was reliving lying underneath an open sky surrounded by family, the comforting scent of wood burning in the background.
I stay quiet, because this is the most he’s ever said about himself, apart from the divorce thing, and I’m afraid if I say anything, he might close right back up again. When I don’t speak, Sarfaraz tilts his face up so his gaze is to the sky. I begin to think I made the wrong decision in staying silent, but then he points to a scattering of stars. “That’s Ursa Major,” he explains. He looks back down at me. “It’s always been one of the easiest constellations for me to spot.”
“It’s really something else. The only bright things in big cities you can spot at night are the airplanes.” I let out a long breath. “My kids would love this.”
Sarfaraz tenses. “You have kids?”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “No,” I say, and he immediately relaxes. “I’m a grade one teacher. My class this year absolutely loved the astronomy unit. We made telescopes, even though I warned them in advance that it would be hard for them to really see anything in the city. They loved listening to me read books about space.” My mind drifts back to the students I had this year. Sometimes they’re a lot to deal with, but I love them to pieces. “I miss them.”
Sarfaraz’s mouth quirks up. “That’s cute.”
I snap my head up to look at him. His face reddens, and he clears his throat as he looks away from me. “I mean, it’s nice you love your job so much.”
I accept the explanation. “How much do you love your job? You must see some rough stuff.”
“Of course,” he says, and judging by the way his shoulders are noticeably less tense, he’s glad I’ve taken the hint. “I handle divorces fairly often. The end of a marriage is usually tough, but sometimes divorce can be freeing.”
At my confused look, Sarfaraz continues. “Sometimes it’s better to be separated than to be stuck in a marriage you don’t want, where all the love is gone,” he explains. “People don’t realize how much it affects their own mental health, as well as the mental health of their children, if they have any, if they stay in a marriage when they no longer love each other.” He shrugs. “Sometimes divorce is better.”
I mull over what he’s said. After a few silent seconds of tapping my fingers against my stomach, I open my mouth. I make sure to keep my focus on the stars as I ask, “Do you really think all marriages are doomed? I know we started this conversation in Switzerland, but we never finished it.”
Sarfaraz hums for a moment. “Maybe not...doomed, but I don’t know how realistic it is. Some relationships are fine until they add marriage to the mix. Such a permanent union... It changes things. Sometimes, it can even change people.”
“Well, I think you’re wrong.”
