Incompatible

Gotcha, Hana thought, spotting the long, yellow, school bus spray-painted with LAND BACK, sitting on the train tracks almost a football field's distance away. She gripped the steering wheel as her beat-up cargo van bumped along the unpaved path toward where a handful of protestors gathered. Not far from their blockade were two local police cruisers.

"Are you here to join us?" a middle-aged Indigenous woman called to her as Hana alit from her van.

"Sure am," Hana smiled, her voluminous black hair bursting out the top of her denim jacket. "But first, is anyone hungry or thirsty?" She unlocked the back of her van and the Indigenous grandmother covered her mouth in awe as she peered in. In the massive cargo space sat several trays of cooked food, a gas stove and cannister, and gallons of drinking water.

"You're an angel," the older woman said, squeezing Hana's arm. "We were just discussing how to leave for lunch without risking the police towing the bus away. I'm Michelle. My nephew Nigaan over there was the one who got us the bus. There's only a few of us now but..." she trailed off.

"And there will be more," Hana reassured her, her voice comforting but hard. "A white guy rams his truck full of ammo and guns through the Prime Minister's gates and he's given a 90-minute talk by RCMP and then taken alive?

"A bunch of white, right-wing truckers take over Ottawa's streets for weeks and the feds and local police refused to stop them? Let them justify why they're going to stop us for being less disruptive than those privileged assholes."

Hana's hand flew to her mouth as she was afraid she'd offended this sweet woman she'd just met, but Michelle grinned at her. She reached for the paper plates and peeked under the aluminum cover of the fried rice tray.

"It's heartening that non-Indigenous people are also here, dear," she said to Hana.

"I'm Palestinian," Hana replied. "I fully understand what this must be like for you, trying to defend land that was never ceded, and that colonisers are trying to keep by force over the course of many, many years. I can't fight for my people back home, but I'm glad I can be here with you, Michelle."

They passed out plates as Michelle introduced Hana to her family members who were there, as well as local activists who were not Indigenous but believed in the cause of Land Back.

"How much did all this cost you, dear?" Michelle asked.

"Don't worry about that, Michelle," Hana replied. "My family runs a catering business, and all this was surplus from an event we just did. It's all fresh cooked as of this morning, and it was going to be thrown out if I didn't bring it here. Weekend events always yield more surplus anyway."

Hana was in the process of working out a plan to regularly bring them supplies when a red coupe approached the area and parked by the police cruisers. With one ear to the conversation, Hana observed a guy looking to be in his mid-20s step out of the two-door coupe and walk around his car to talk to the cops.

His hair was a shade of strawberry blond that Hana had rarely seen before, and he was lean but with broad shoulders. He wore khakis and a white, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Checking out how tall he stood next to the police officers, Hana squinted and estimated he might be about 5'11".

"He's too young to be a detective," Michelle said to her, stepping away from where the other activists were still talking. "But he has a notepad and the cops are talking to him."

"He's press," Hana stated, her brow furrowing as she tried to watch the reporter's body language more closely. "And of course he went to the police first because that's the slant his story is going to take." She and Michelle exchanged knowing glances, then walked forward a bit when the blond man started toward them.

"Hi there, I'm Reed Poletti. I write for the Examiner," he introduced himself, lifting his hand in a hello gesture while still holding his pen. Hana was on her guard as she always was when speaking to the press at protests, but she wondered why she hadn't seen this guy on the circuit before.

I would have remembered him, she thought, noticing his striking blue eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses, and the way his longish red-blond hair fell over his forehead on one side.

"Michelle Robinson," the grandmother responded. "How can I help you?" Reed proceeded to ask Michelle a few questions, glancing over at Hana now and then. She stayed silent but continued to stare warily at Reed. After thanking Michelle for her time, Reed turned to Hana.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions as well?" he gave her an easy smile. Hana's pulse quickened, prompting her to turn back toward her van.

"Not at all," she replied. "But I'm just helping. I hope you'll mainly be talking to the Indigenous protestors here." She motioned for him to follow her back toward the spot where everyone else was gathered.

"Did you bring all that food?" he asked.

"Sure did," she answered. "Are you hungry? There's plenty for everyone."

"No, I'm good, thank you," Reed said, clicking on the end of his pen. "Do you... do you come to these things often?"

"Not as often as the Canadian government decides to shove pipelines through unceded Indigenous land, no," Hana flippantly answered, inwardly rolling her eyes at how he managed to make his question sound like a pick-up line. "But I try to show up with supplies as often as I can."

Reed was intrigued watching Hana set up small folding tables on which she laid out hand sanitizer, cups, plates, and bamboo cutlery. She had everything prepared as if she had quite a bit of experience aiding protesters before. He peered into the van and saw she even had blankets and first aid equipment toward the back.

She's pretty young, though, he pondered, observing the small crowd of about 25 people step up one by one and grab a plate as Hana answered questions about the ingredients in each dish. Maybe she's my age? Maybe a bit younger? She could very well still be in college or university.

Reed couldn't help but admire how much energy she packed into her slight frame. She was about 5'5" with wavy black hair and dark chocolate eyes, tan skin, and a svelte figure.

"Is that the only question you have for me?" she asked, snapping Reed's eyes away from the curve of her hips.

"Uh, no," he said. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"It's Hana."

"Hannah?"

"No, HUN-ah," she overpronounced, as though he were a toddler. "Hana Farouq. It's Middle Eastern so please don't anglicize it." Reed found himself wondering why he was captivated with this young woman despite her making no effort to hide her disdain for him.

"I'm sorry, did we get off on the wrong foot?" he asked her once she'd finished serving everyone their first helping. She turned toward him, unimpressed.

"Reed, was it?" Hana said, turning her dark eyes up toward his. "I've met you before. Not you, but some version of a spry, young reporter assigned to cover events like this, who wants to ingratiate themselves with the cops so they end up writing a story making peaceful protestors look unreasonable.

"Imagine you had to take time out of your life to protect your home several times a year, and imagine everyone thought you were a burden on society for fighting in any way you knew how. So forgive me if I'm not jumping at the chance to give you quotes for a news article I've already read many times over."

Hana's voice had risen, drawing the attention of Michelle but no one else.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, coming over and narrowing her eyes at Reed. Hana nodded at Michelle and Reed stepped back.

"Alright," he said. "I apologise for intruding and I'll be going now." He pulled out his card from his pocket. "But if there's anything you want to add, here's how you can find me. Thanks." With that, Reed swiveled back and made his way to his car, waving at the cops and thanking them before he turned onto the dusty road behind him.

Hana watched and shook her head. The words she'd wished she'd said were already racing through her mind.

***********

"I was such a bitch," Hana lamented on Monday, holding that morning's Examiner with one hand and her phone with the other hand. "What's worse, I was needlessly bitchy."

"I hear ya," her best friend Talya Schwartz said on the other end. "I hate misdirecting my bitchiness, especially if I felt like it was spot-on in the moment. Then you find out you shot the wrong target and it's time to backpedal."

"I don't know if I can do that, either," Hana said. The article Reed wrote was not only sympathetic to the Land Back blockade; he had quoted her directly about how tiring and unnecessary it was to keep fighting for one's home.

"He gave me his card but I feel like I'd rather chew off my left arm than call him and apologise," she said.

"Well..." Talya started. "Was he cute?" Hana stayed silent.

"So I counted up to 15 in my head just now," Talya analysed, "which means he was not only cute; he was smoking hot, wasn't he?" Hana scrunched her forehead and put her hands against her eyes, still silent and grateful her friend couldn't see her face.

"Okay, now you have to call him," Talya insisted. "Just ask to take him out for a coffee and apologise then. And if you don't want him, hand him over to me."

"Didn't your parents say they wanted you to marry a fellow Jew?" Hana asked pointedly.

"They said to try my best to find someone who's also Jewish," Talya corrected her. "If I tried and failed and then stumbled upon sexy reporter dude, oh well." They both dissolved into giggles, after which Hana promised she would work up the nerve to call Reed.

By that Saturday, however, she still hadn't managed to make the call but she chalked it up to her executive dysfunction while packing up the van again with snacks and water. She'd already contacted the organisers of the climate action rally in downtown Toronto to ask where she could strategically park to hand out supplies to protesters on the march route.

Finding the intersection and tucking her van into a wide alley, she opened up the back when she saw a shadow looming against the adjacent brick wall.

"Look, officer, there's no signage here and I'm legally--" she spun around to see Reed right in front of her, amused. "...parked. Oh... hi."

"Hi," he said. "Well prepared again, I see." Hana's face broke into a shy smile, and she glanced down. "You should do that more often," Reed added. She looked at him questioningly. "Smile," he clarified. "I mean, I'm not into telling random women they should smile more, but... it sure beats you chewing me out."

"About that," Hana seized the opportunity, "I'm really sorry about last week. I was pretty sure anything you wrote wouldn't paint us in a favourable light, but I shouldn't have assumed." I was right; he is 5'11", she confirmed, admiring the way he looked in his dark gray polo shirt and jeans.

"It's alright," Reed said. "It struck me there was a history behind why you reacted the way you did, and it's understandable." He fidgeted with the pen he held while trying to keep his eyes on Hana's face instead of her short skater dress. A brief spell of silence lingered between them as the sound of someone on a megaphone echoed in the distance.

"Do you... do you need help?" Reed asked, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Uh, no," Hana stammered, looking past Reed's broad shoulders to see Talya turning the corner of the sidewalk. "I've got someone coming. Aren't you here for work, anyway?"

"I am," Reed nodded, "and I have to speak to a few more people. But maybe I'll see you later." He turned as he winked at her and all but crashed into Talya.

"Hel-lo," she grinned, unabashedly looking him up and down. "Hana, why are you not introducing us?"

"This is my friend Talya, Reed," Hana said. "She'll be helping me hand out water. Talya, this is Reed who wrote the article."

"You're the reporter?" Talya eyes widened along with her smile, and Hana covered her face with her hands. "You realise you'd make a tonne more in modeling, right? I mean, unless your girlfriend wouldn't be comfortable with that." She paused and tilted her head. "Wife?" Reed gave a nervous laugh as his face turned slightly pink.

"Uhhhh, neither right now," he said, taking a step away down the sidewalk and glancing back at Hana who was equally mortified. "Gotta get to work but maybe we can catch up again." Talya watched him recede into the distance, then turned to her friend.

"God, I hope so. Did you see that perfect ass?"

"Thanks, Tal," Hana said. "Thanks so much for all of that."

"Look at you," Talya responded with an amused lilt in her voice. "You wouldn't even be embarrassed if you didn't kinda like him, huh?" She caught Hana's eye and winked. "And he wouldn't have been blushing if he didn't kinda like you too. Just sayin'."

"Well, stop sayin' and rip open those cases near the front," Hana instructed. "They already started marching a half-hour ago and I don't want to be scrambling when everyone shows up in another 10 minutes."

"Fine, fine," Talya put her hands up. "But here's my bet. He's going to try to find you again today. If he doesn't, he's going to show up at the BLM march next Saturday to try and find you. You could just go easy on the guy and give him a call so he has your number, you know."

Hours later, Hana's van had been emptied out, and she and Talya had collected all the cardboard and plastic they could find to recycle. Talya caught the subway home, and Hana found herself taking her time cleaning up. She skimmed the passing crowds now and then to see if Reed was nearby, but finally went to drop the van back at her family's catering business.

She was still skimming the crowd the following weekend not far from Yonge and Dundas Square, her legs dangling out of the cargo area of the van when Talya tapped her on the shoulder.

"How do you always count on the fact that you're going to have a van full of food and drinks to give out to people?" she asked.

"It's summer," Hana replied. "Rich people have parties in the summer, and rich people waste a lot of stuff from those parties. Thankfully, they're supporting several worthy causes, with or without their knowledge." She squinted as she scanned the area.

"He's not here yet," Talya said, munching on a granola bar. "I looked." Hana grinned and shook her head.

"I was looking to see if people were com--"

"Right, yeah," Talya interrupted, her eyes still turned outward to the crowd assembled in the square. "That little halter dress of yours says it all." Hana crossed her arms over her chest. "If only there were some way you could contact him..." Talya went on. "I don't know... a business card with his phone number and e-mail on it..."

"And say what, exactly?" Hana demanded.

"Sweetie," Talya sat beside her friend out the back of the van and touched her hand. "Our people are from the same corner of the world. We've all experienced--albeit at different times in history--that life can be nasty, brutish and short, through no fault of our own.

"If there's any chance to grasp some sliver of happiness, I feel like it's our responsibility to do it. You and I are lucky enough to live in a place that will allow us to do that, and it won't take away from our principles, not in the least.

"I'm not saying you have to marry the guy," she continued. "But there is nothing wrong with a coffee, a walk in the park, and a hot, consensual fuck."

"Talya!"

"What? If he doesn't want you, I have no issues offering myself up to that fine piece of--"

"There he is!" Hana spotted Reed in the middle of the street, walking on the edge of the crowd between Black marchers and the police, wearing a BLM t-shirt.

"Is he... is he working today?" asked a confused Talya. "If he is, is he allowed to be part of the event he's covering?" Hana shrugged, just as confused.

Things soon got busy as marchers approached them and they handed out water and snacks, Hana looking up now and then until she finally lost sight of Reed in the rush. Almost an hour later when the crowd thinned out, she wondered if it had really been him at all.

"It was really him," Talya flatly stated, and Hana was astonished that her emotions were so obvious on her face. But Talya was staring up the street. "Look." Reed was drawing closer, prompting Talya to grin as she gathered her things and quickly disappeared into the shawarma place across the road.

"So are you here for fun or for work?" Hana blurted out as soon as he reached her and lifted himself up to sit beside her off the back of the van.

"Hello to you, too," he smiled, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You sure cut to the chase, don't you?" He helped himself to a bottle of water before answering, his eyes running over her bare shoulders and legs.

"I was supposed to be covering it," he answered. "But almost as soon as I got here, I saw a few cops inching closer and closer to some of the marchers. Who happened to be Black.

"When they put their hands on their batons--for no reason; the protesters were just chanting and didn't notice them--I knew they were going to start something. I just walked in and stood in the middle, and the cops were not expecting a white guy to do that." He took another swig of water.

"Then a couple of other white people came over and stood beside me, and I just asked the Black marchers if they were ready to start moving. The white people put our bodies between them and the cops, someone tossed me this t-shirt, and here we are."

Fuck, Hana thought, wishing she had been right about him being a corporate mouthpiece just like every other reporter she'd met.

"What... what about your article?" she asked out loud.

"I called my colleague who's also working today and we agreed to exchange notes and write each other's stories," he finished. "Can I ask you something now?"

"It's summer and the water and snacks are just extra that my clients ordered for events," Hana anticipated. "That's how I'm able to show up at social movements every week and help like this."

"Well, my keen investigative skills told me it was something like that, judging from Farouq Catering emblazoned across the side of your van," Reed smirked as Hana closed her eyes, slightly embarrassed. "I wanted to ask you if you'd like to meet me for coffee sometime."

Hana glanced up in surprise.

"I mean, not today," Reed rushed on. "I have to get my co-worker's notes and file my article, and you probably have to return your van. But--"

"Yes," Hana interrupted, noting the palpable look of relief on Reed's face. "What about Wednesday? Business is slow on weekdays so I'm off that day."

"So am I, actually," Reed said. "And the next day. Do you want to meet me for breakfast instead?"

Hana stepped off the subway a few days later, still in disbelief that Reed wanted to see her. Maybe he's doing a profile on me or something, she rationalized. He's at enough protests; maybe his editor told him to take another ang--

She felt a warm hand on her arm and spun around to see those smiling cobalt eyes, and she was officially toast. Reed didn't want an interview with her, she learned; he just wanted to see her outside of a social justice movement. Journalism was definitely his calling as he peppered her with questions about herself.

She told him she was the youngest of four, and while she was lucky enough to be born in Canada, her parents and eldest sibling escaped the occupation of Palestine almost 30 years ago.

"Talya and I met at a Free Palestine rally, actually, during our first year of university," she said, spearing a piece of waffle on her fork. "My friend who was obviously coming on to you?" Reed shyly smiled as he pulled apart a croissant.