“Samir, this is Azeer. My— Uh—” Nemesis? Enemy? Scum of the earth that I’ve been arranged to? No, more like an unwelcome presence that I can’t seem to get rid of. A persistent itch you can’t quite scratch, a fly that won’t leave you alone, or a bad haircut you’re stuck with for months. Or, in my unfortunate case, permanently. “Fiancé,” Azeer finishes for me. “I’m her fiancé.”
Oh 🫠😩
