The Measure of a Woman

Joram leaned back in his leather office chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watched Essy through the glass partition. She was bent over a stack of files, her tall, slender frame poised in quiet concentration. Once, the sight of her had sent a thrill through him—her elegance, her devotion to the Christian Union, the way she carried herself with an air of grace. But now, all he saw were the cracks in the facade.

The burnt spot on his carpet flashed in his memory—a permanent scar from the day she had carelessly set a hot pan down after making chapatis. "It was an accident," she had said, her voice soft with apology. But accidents, to Joram, were symptoms of a deeper carelessness. Then there was the cleaning—only the visible surfaces, never the hidden corners where dust gathered like secrets. He had asked her once, voice sharp with frustration, "Did your mother never teach you how to clean properly?" She had stiffened, hurt flickering in her eyes, but he hadn’t softened. A woman should know these things.

And then came the failing grades.

Twice.

His jaw tightened. She had failed one unit, and he had warned her—sternly, like a disappointed teacher. "You have to take your studies seriously." But she had failed again, and that was the final strike. If she couldn’t handle her education, how could she handle anything else? Laziness was a disease, and he wouldn’t tolerate it.

His phone buzzed on the desk. A message from Conny.

A smirk tugged at his lips. Conny—short, radiant, with a confidence Essy lacked. He had noticed her long before Essy, back when his late friend Brian had been the one vying for her attention. But Brian was gone now, and Joram had no reason to hold back.

Except for Erico.

His grip on the phone tightened. Erico, his so-called friend, always seemed to know things he shouldn’t—private jokes, conversations that had happened behind closed doors. "He probably hacked my WhatsApp," Conny had said with an airy laugh when Joram confronted her. They had switched to Imo, but the suspicion lingered like a bad smell.

And then the excuses started.

"I’m busy tonight."

"Maybe next week?"

"Sorry, I forgot we had plans."

Each one chipped away at his patience.

His thumb hovered over Noor’s name in his contacts. Noor—reserved, enigmatic, her dark eyes always holding a mystery he couldn’t unravel. Their conversations were deep, laced with an unspoken tension, but she was a fortress. "You can’t come to my place," she had said firmly. "And I won’t come to yours." A devout Muslim, her boundaries were as rigid as her faith.

Joram exhaled sharply, tossing his phone onto the desk.

Three women. Three disappointments.

Essy—careless, lazy.

Conny—distracted, unreliable.

Noor—untouchable, distant.

Was it too much to ask for a woman who met his standards?

A knock at his office door interrupted his thoughts. Essy stood there, holding a report.

"Here’s the quarterly analysis," she said, her voice steady despite the tension between them.

He took the file without a word, their fingers brushing briefly. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, then turned and left.

His phone buzzed again. Conny.

"Hey, sorry, can’t make it tonight. Something came up."

He didn’t bother replying.

Instead, he opened his messages with Noor. Their last exchange was from two days ago—a half-hearted attempt at flirting that had gone nowhere.

Joram leaned back, rubbing his temples.

Maybe the problem wasn’t them.

Maybe it was him.

But no—he knew what he wanted. A woman who was diligent, devoted, flawless. Was that so unreasonable?

Outside his office, Essy laughed at something a coworker said, Conny scrolled through her phone with a smirk, and Noor walked past without glancing in.

Three women, all falling short.

Joram turned his chair toward the window, the city sprawling beyond.

Perhaps the only one who would never disappoint him was the One who had made him.

And with that, he closed his eyes, shutting out the noise of the office, the whispers of failed romances, the endless cycle of expectation and letdown.

He was done measuring hearts that would never fit.