Chapter 4: Sacrilege
The morning light in my bedroom was a gentle liar. It fell across the pink frills of my bedspread, the old stuffed elephant on the shelf, the modest desk where my school copy of the Quran sat, its edges softened by years of respectful handling. It painted everything in a glow of innocence that made my skin feel tight and foreign.
My body ached in quiet, specific ways. The muscles along my jaw were tender. A deeper, familiar soreness hummed between my thighs, and my knees were tender points of pressure against the floor. I had showered for twenty minutes, scrubbing until my skin was raw, but the scent of Ben’s hotel shampoo seemed to have woven itself into my hair.
The first call to prayer had been my alarm. I dressed quickly in a simple, long-sleeved baju kurung, covering every curve, every mark. I wrapped my hijab with extra care, the fabric a cool shield.
I could hear Ibu Aisha moving in the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes. The smell of nasi goreng and sweet tea wrapped around the house, a scent of home that somehow made my throat close.
She was already on her mat in the living room when I entered. She glanced up, her face softening into a smile that held all her hopes for me. “Alhamdulillah, you’re awake for Subuh. Come, sayang.”
I lowered myself beside her, the motion sending a flash of memory through me: kneeling on a plush carpet for a different purpose. I pressed my forehead to the woven fabric of my prayer mat, the fibers smelling of dust and devotion.
“Allahu Akbar…”
The Arabic words flowed from my lips, automatic, a well-worn path. But my mind was a scrambled broadcast. The measured prostration, the press of my sore knees into the floor—it mirrored the posture of last night so closely it felt like a sick parody. With every “Subhana rabbiyal a’la” whispered, I saw the hotel skyline. With every seated pause, I felt the ghost of a hand on the back of my neck.
Ibu Aisha finished her prayers with a serene sigh, gathering her supplications in cupped hands. I mimicked her, my own whispers feeling hollow.
“You are dedicated, Cynthia,” she said as we rose, her hand patting my arm. “So many young people sleep through the dawn prayer. It makes a mother’s heart happy to see your faith strong.”
Her words were a shiv sliding between my ribs. I forced a smile. “It gives me peace, Ibu.”
“It is your foundation,” she nodded, leading me to the small kitchen table. She set a plate of steaming fried rice before me. “Without it, the world pulls you in so many directions. You lose yourself.”
I picked up my spoon, the metal cold in my hand. “Yes.”
Her phone, an old model with a cracked case, buzzed on the countertop. She ignored it, pouring tea. “Auntie Sari was asking about you yesterday. Her son, Faisal, has just finished his engineering degree. A very polite boy. Very serious about his faith.”
I kept my eyes on my plate. The rice grains seemed to blur. “That’s nice.”
“It is,” she said, a gentle insistence in her tone. “A good match is important. A man who will honor you, and help you honor Allah.”
At that moment, my own phone, tucked in the pocket of my robe, vibrated. Once. Then again. A distinct, sequential buzz I knew too well. A Tinder notification. Then, likely, a message. Probably from Ben. Hey, last night was incredible. Can I see you again?
The twin vibrations felt deafening in the quiet, sunlit kitchen. I froze, a forkful of rice halfway to my mouth.
Ibu Aisha’s eyes flicked to my robe pocket. “You should silence that during meals, sayang.”
“Sorry, Ibu,” I mumbled, my face heating. “I thought I did.”
“These phones,” she sighed, a world of mild disapproval in the phrase. “Always demanding attention. The Prophet, peace be upon him, taught us the importance of being present.”
I nodded, chewing tasteless food. The phone felt like a live coal against my thigh. Ben’s hands, his mouth, his approval, were just a screen-tap away, existing in the same universe as my mother’s teachings about modesty and matches.
The rest of breakfast was a quiet torture of small talk—the neighbor’s new roof, the price of lentils, the upcoming study circle at the mosque. Each pious plan she mentioned built another wall around me. And with every breath, I felt the other Cynthia, the one from the high-floor hotel room, straining against them.
Finally, she began to clear the plates. “I will visit Ummi Khadija this morning. Her rheumatism is bad again. Will you be home?”
“I have some errands,” I said, the lie forming smoothly. “But I’ll be back for Dzuhur prayer.”
She kissed my forehead, her lips soft and dry. “My good girl.”
The words landed with the weight of a life sentence.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind her, the silence of the house changed. It was no longer peaceful. It was charged, expectant. I pulled the phone from my pocket. The screen lit up under my thumb.
Two messages from Ben. Seriously, that was next level. You free tonight?
A new match. A Swedish guy with a smile that was all teeth. Hey beautiful. Here for a week. Want to show me the real Bali?
I stood in my pastel childhood bedroom, the morning sun illuminating the dust motes dancing over my Quran. The soreness in my body was a testament. The messages on my screen were a summons.
Ibu Aisha’s voice echoed in my head. You lose yourself.
I typed a reply to Ben, my fingers moving with a will of their own. Maybe. Let me check.
Then I opened the Swedish guy’s profile. I looked at his picture, then at the worn cover of the holy book on my desk. The distance between them wasn’t an ocean or a faith. It was the space between one breath and the next. It was a choice I kept making, again and again, while the call to prayer continued to mark the hours of a life I was supposed to be living. I pressed my tender knees together and began to type.