This entire page is so representative of their banter and romantic interactions, it means the world to me lol.
The hand-kissing is still the same gesture of respect for one’s elders (which Ayse is to Zeynel, by a year and a half), but it’s taken on a reverential tone.
↓ Transcript
Zeynel playfully tosses the untangled red thread onto her face, laughing, “Hey! I’m serious!”
He leans towards Ayse as she removes the red thread from her face, and says, “I just need to get over myself, and kick (here he laughs) this stupid fear in the ass.”
She looks at this boy, who has endeared himself to her. He is a tall and lanky young man, with a slight apologetic hunch. He is not at all frightening despite his height, even though as an above average woman, she barely reaches past his shoulders. For the most part he is like his father, with a large and graceful nose, a long face, and a scholarly aura. Yet, here and there, he has a softness inherited from his mother. Particularly the eyes, the corners of which are drawn downward like the curves of a jar, gifting his dark brown eyes a fixed expression of inquisitive concern. He is still a sugary, booksmart Hafiz with a gentle voice. And yet, oddly, he looks like he makes sense in her world.
She says to him, “You know, I thought I didn’t like you. I had my doubts, but now I think we could even be friends.”
He cocks his head to the side, as if in playful disbelief. “Oh, you think so?”
She offers her hand, now wrapped in that red thread, to Zeynel, and says, “Would you like me to repeat it?”
He gets on his knee. Politely, gently, he takes her hand. He chuckles at her comment. “Why not?”
He brings her hand to his lips, and kisses her fingers for the first time. A Turkish gesture of respect. Admiration.
Zeynel looks up at Ayse. He says, with full-body sincerity, “Thank you.”
He leans towards Ayse as she removes the red thread from her face, and says, “I just need to get over myself, and kick (here he laughs) this stupid fear in the ass.”
She looks at this boy, who has endeared himself to her. He is a tall and lanky young man, with a slight apologetic hunch. He is not at all frightening despite his height, even though as an above average woman, she barely reaches past his shoulders. For the most part he is like his father, with a large and graceful nose, a long face, and a scholarly aura. Yet, here and there, he has a softness inherited from his mother. Particularly the eyes, the corners of which are drawn downward like the curves of a jar, gifting his dark brown eyes a fixed expression of inquisitive concern. He is still a sugary, booksmart Hafiz with a gentle voice. And yet, oddly, he looks like he makes sense in her world.
She says to him, “You know, I thought I didn’t like you. I had my doubts, but now I think we could even be friends.”
He cocks his head to the side, as if in playful disbelief. “Oh, you think so?”
She offers her hand, now wrapped in that red thread, to Zeynel, and says, “Would you like me to repeat it?”
He gets on his knee. Politely, gently, he takes her hand. He chuckles at her comment. “Why not?”
He brings her hand to his lips, and kisses her fingers for the first time. A Turkish gesture of respect. Admiration.
Zeynel looks up at Ayse. He says, with full-body sincerity, “Thank you.”
