Page 55 of Written By a Woman

Zaid rolled his eyes before something stuck out in our conversation.

“Wait, can I ask you a question?” I held up a finger right when Zaid stood taller, getting ready to walk toward his office.

“Min oyoni?” He replied, adjusting his shoulder bag.

“What?” I furrowed my brows in confusion. He blinked at me once, as if startled, but then shook his head, before translating for me.

“I meant, yes?”

“Oh. Well, excuse my caucasity,” I started, “But I thought that Ansara was an Arabic last name?”

“It is,” Zaid nodded distractedly, checking his phone.

“But…your dad is an Italian chef—which, sounds like he might be an Italian man,” I reminded him.

“You’re correct, he is,” Zaid smirked, still not looking at me as he tapped away on his phone, but I felt relief at seeing how he was visibly enjoying my confusion. I felt a little more justified in it.

“So why does your Italian father have an Arabic last name?”

“He doesn’t,” Zaid finally pocketed his phone and lifted his dark gaze to meet mine, his smirk twitching in amusement, “My mother wanted her kids to have her last name.”

“Oh,” I sat back in my chair, understanding, “Why did she do that?”

“Because, and I quote,” Zaid lifted his fingers to produce quotation marks with his words, “my mother ‘did all the work, so why should her husband take all the credit?’” Zaid smiled as I felt my own smile spread across my cheeks.

“Your mom is my hero,” I rested my hands over my heart in respect for the woman.

“She’s an only child, and she wasn’t about to let her heritage be completely washed away with my father’s last name, and thankfully, my father didn’t feel nearly as passionate about the subject,” Zaid shrugged before taking another sip of his coffee, “He’s the laid back one in their relationship.”

“Doesn’t that sound like the perfect relationship dynamic, though?” I asked, sitting up in my chair and resting my elbows on the desk near my keyboard, “One person is a little more headstrong and passionate, and the other is more laid back and chill?”

Zaid gave me a look I had no hope of deciphering before he nodded once and murmured, “Yeah, it does.”

Butterflies erupted in my stomach.

It was obvious that even though we were just friends, that was the dynamic Zaid and I had with each other. I wore goofy-looking sweatshirts into the office regularly, while he always wore his plain professional t-shirts and polos, or sometimes a button-up.

“What about your name?” Zaid asked, surprising me a little at how he continued the conversation.

“What about my name?”Besides the fact that you say it perfectly every time.

“Where does Signe come from? Is it a family name?” Zaid asked, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.

“It’s a name my mom found on a list of popular European baby names,” I grinned, “It’s not that deep. When my mom was pregnant with me, she got really into researching her own family history, seeing where her ancestors immigrated from and stuff. She loved learning about her Scandinavian roots. So, when I was born, she named me Signe, but then quickly focused back on kickstarting her pottery career.”

Zaid’s eyebrows raised, “Your mom makes pottery?”

“She does,” I nodded, “She has a business making custom dinnerware for the one percent of the US. She charges enough to live off of.” I was proud of her, I also had a few of her homemade mugs at my condo. I loved the imperfections of handmade pottery, even though at this point my mom had to really try to make sure all her cups, plates, and bowls weren’t perfect duplicates of each other.

“What about your dad? What does he do?” Zaid asked.

“I don’t know, never met the guy. I wasn’t exactly a planned pregnancy,” I saw Zaid’s eyes widen, and I could see he was getting ready to apologize for bringing up the fact that I didn’t have a father figure, but I raised my hand and stopped him before he could start, “Don’t worry, I’m not broken up about it. I never needed, or really wanted, more than my mother.”

Zaid nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face, “I’m glad to hear you both had each other.”

“Thanks,” I glanced back at the open calendar on my desktop, “But don’t forget to bring me your dad’s food when you’re back. I meant it, Mr. Ansara.”

At that, Zaid grinned and rapped his knuckles on the top of my desk twice, similarly to how I knocked my knuckles on his office door whenever I passed by it, before focusing back on his phone and sauntering towards his office.

---