You are reading ABBAS AND SALWA: a contemporary Egyptian romance novel.
The wedding hall sparkles with celebration. Chandeliers cast golden light across the crowd as Abbas stands near the back, watching his colleague Mahmoud guide his new bride toward the photo backdrop. The script “Mr. and Mrs. Anwar” glitters behind them.
Mahmoud beams with pride. His bride Reem glows in her ivory dress, her smile radiant as cameras flash. Guests surge forward, phones raised high.
“Mabrook! Mabrook!” The congratulations echo through the hall.
Abbas shifts his weight, trying to fade into the background. No such luck.
“Look at them, ya Abbas.” Khāltu Samira appears beside him, patting his arm. “What a perfect match. When will it be your turn?”
Abbas straightens his tie. “I am certain Allah will provide when the time is right.”
“My friend’s daughter Noor,” his elder cousin Ibrahim cuts in, materializing on his other side. “She comes from an excellent family. Very pretty girl.”
Abbas watches Mahmoud kiss Reem’s cheek for another photo. His chest tightens. That could be me. The thought sneaks in before he can stop it.
“I do not wish to rush into marriage,” Abbas says, his voice firm. “It is important to find the right match.”
Khāltu Samira squeezes his arm. “You cannot wait forever, habibi. A good man needs a wife.”
Abbas nods, but his mind drifts to the matches he rejected. Naima with her quiet demeanor. Fatima who loved books more than people. Good women, but not what he dreams of.
“Inshallah, khālti,” he manages. “I will find a suitable match soon.”
Ibrahim chuckles. “Let me tell you more about Noor. She-“
“I must congratulate the couple,” Abbas interrupts, already stepping away. His polite smile remains fixed, but his shoulders sag the moment he turns.
He weaves through the crowd, dodging some well-meaning relatives and their suggestions. The weight of their expectations presses down on him. Yet the image of Mahmoud’s proud smile lingers.
I want that, he thinks. A beautiful wife. Someone who makes others stop and stare.
“Anxiety flutters in his chest. What if he never finds her? What if-“
A week later, in the El-Masri villa
Sunlight spills across Salwa’s vanity as she balances an archaeology magazine on her knee, her other hand steadying an eyeliner pencil. The magazine’s glossy pages showcase the ongoing excavations at Luxor – fragments of pottery, hints of daily life from thousands of years ago. Her eyes drift between the photographs and her reflection, the kohl pencil hovering uncertainly.
The magazine slides. Again. She catches it before it hits the floor, marking her place with a manicured finger. With a sigh, she sets it aside. The ancient world has waited thousands of years. It can wait another hour.
Her phone buzzes. Layla’s name flashes on the screen.
“You won’t believe the new artifacts they’re uncovering in Luxor,” Salwa begins, fingers tracing the magazine’s glossy photographs. “These pottery fragments show-“
“Fascinating, habibti,” Layla interrupts. “But more importantly, are you heading to khāltū Samira’s today? Since your mother can’t go…”
Salwa’s enthusiasm dims, but she shifts topics with practiced ease. “Yes, someone has to represent the family. Um Hassan’s daughters will be there.” She angles closer to the mirror, checking her eyeliner. “And apparently Um Khaled’s youngest just got engaged.”
“No! To whom? Tell me everything!”
The door creaks open. Sanaa glides in, her abaya rustling against the carpet. She pauses, watching her daughter with that familiar mix of pride and… something else. Worry, perhaps?
“I’ll call you later,” Salwa tells Layla, ending the call.
“You look lovely,” Sanaa says, adjusting her headscarf. Her eyes fall on the magazine. “Still reading about ancient Egypt, habibti?”
“It’s fascinating, Mama.” Salwa reaches for her mascara. “The way they built these massive monuments, their understanding of mathematics, the artistry in their pottery and textiles—”
“Okay, okay, habibti,” Sanaa laughs softly. “I understand.”
“But Mama, did you know they found—”
“Your sister Yasmin called,” Sanaa interrupts, settling on the edge of the bed. “She’s hosting a dinner party next week.”
Salwa’s hand stills mid-stroke. Something tightens in her chest at the mention of her sister. Perfect Yasmin, with her perfect marriage and her perfect life. She focuses on her lashes, stroke by careful stroke.
“That’s nice,” she manages.
“You know,” Sanaa’s voice softens, “you could have both – a family and your interests. There’s no shame in building a life while pursuing what you love.”
Salwa’s hand hovers over her makeup collection. For a moment, she says nothing. Then she reaches for her lipstick, the expensive one she bought last week.
“The gathering starts soon,” she says, carefully outlining her lips. “I should finish getting ready.”
***
Abbas pauses at the entrance to his aunt’s majlis, the bundle of herbs from his mother warm in his hands. The familiar scent of cardamom and coffee drifts through the air.
“Abbas, habibi!” Samira beckons him forward. “Come, bring those herbs your mother sent.”
He approaches, eyes lowered in respect. A flash of emerald green catches his attention – a woman’s tunic, elegant and understated.
“This is Salwa, Sanaa El-Masri’s daughter,” Samira continues. “She came on her mother’s behalf today – such a devoted daughter, mashaAllah.”
Abbas glances up briefly. His breath catches. Salwa stands with perfect composure, her dark eyes meeting his for just a moment before dropping demurely.
“This is Salwa, Sanaa El-Masri’s daughter,” Samira says. “Such a blessing, coming on her mother’s behalf today.”
Abbas’s pulse quickens as their eyes meet briefly before Salwa looks away. The silver band on her right hand catches the light.
“As-salaam-alaikum,” he manages.
“Wa-alaikum-salaam.” Salwa’s voice carries a gentle warmth that makes his heart stutter.
“The herbs, habibi,” Samira prompts, eyes twinkling.
“Yes—” He hands over the bundle. “There’s honey too, for Um Sanaa.”
“My mother will appreciate your kindness,” Salwa says, accepting the package. Her fingers brush his for the briefest moment.
“I should return these.” She turns to go, then pauses. “Send my best to your mother, Abbas.”
His name on her lips sends a jolt through him. He watches her leave, struck by an inexplicable sense of loss.
“I saw that look,” Samira teases once Salwa is gone. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?”
“I was merely being polite, khāltū.” The words sound hollow even to his ears.
“Of course, habibi.” Samira’s knowing smile widens. “But if you ever want to know more about the El-Masri family…”
Abbas shakes his head, but can’t suppress his own smile. His aunt’s matchmaking reputation was well-earned, after all.
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