Afreen was dressing up to attend her cousin’s wedding. So was her mom and her younger sister, Afia. The only one who was laid back was her dad. He will get up exactly ten minutes before leaving to get dressed. Afreen also didn’t take too much time to get ready, but she was not nearly as quick as her dad. Chic make-up and clothing did not appeal to her as much. She dressed, not to kill, but to look presentable. Another reason may be that she never know what to do with her appearance: A dusky skin tone and curly hair. Her mom had tied her hair in a tight french braid, the only hair style that could tame her otherwise untameable locks. After she was done, she turned to look at Afia, a girl with silky straight hair, styling her hair. Afreen was hypnotised. Afia was prepping her hair with precision no less than a brain surgeon while simultaneously watching a YouTube video of an influencer; pausing and rewinding every thirty seconds.
The family got in the car. As the car dragged through the notorious traffic of the metropolitan city, Dhaka, Afreen looked out the window. The traffic jam did not repel her as much as others. She kind of liked it. These traffic jams allowed her to steal some leisure time, which was much needed and almost non-existent in her life. The night was lit, not by the stars in the sky above but by the neon lights on the ground below.
They were warmly welcomed by their folks at the venue. Her mom and dad proceeded to get themselves acquainted with their newly formed relatives. Afreen’s mom introduced Afreen and Afia to one of the aunties. “These are my two daughters, Afreen and Afia.” she said, “Afreen is a first-year student of Dhaka Medical College and Afia is in high
school.” The aunty asked casually in response, “No boys?” “No”, her mom replied in an apathetic tone, “No boys.”
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