The Wedding of Leila and Hamid
Cyrus
Dusk is fading out the sun when Cyrus steps out of the banquet hall, struck by the clarity of the sky in this no-man’s-land just beyond Tehran. The sickle moon hangs in a burst of crimson light, and the air is sharp and thin. Cyrus carries two half-filled glasses of Coke to his Sorento, parked amid a sea of upmarket cars in the unpaved lot. The music thrums behind him, muffled yet insistent. He balances the glasses on the roof and rubs his hands against the cold, watching his breath rise in tiny clouds. The chill in the air clears his head—a brief escape from the chaos inside, like a swimmer coming up for air. He needs these solitary breaks to endure the crowd. Being a nerd—good at books and exams—takes its toll in the constant anxiety of seeming acceptable to others, especially to girls. A drop of alcohol helps, however. From the trunk, he pulls out a bottle of clear liquid, tops off both glasses of Coke, and takes a cautious sip to test the alcohol level. Satisfied, he heads back toward the hall.
As he steps inside, the air immediately shifts, stifling and warm. The hall is nearly packed, even though, by his estimation, the newlyweds are still an hour away. The dance floor is fuller now, mostly with women. His eyes scan the room until they land on Sohrab, leaning against a column.
Cyrus presses one glass to Sohrab’s chest, right over his puffy purple tie. Sohrab curls both hands around it.
Cyrus clinks his own glass against it. “Cheers.”
Sohrab sniffs the drink. “What did you mix the Coke with?”
“If I give you a name, would you trust me?” The truth is, it has no name—just a homemade concoction from a trusted friend. Cyrus takes a sip and eyes Sohrab holding the glass like a dirty sock. “Relax. You won’t go blind. I’m a medical student, for God’s sake.”
Sohrab brings the glass to his lips and winces. “Tonight, I’m at the mercy of you plus whoever made this bootleg.”
Cyrus watches a woman on a dance floor. She follows the beat a bit more closely than others around her, hips swaying quickly. When she laughs, she opens her mouth wide, her joy reaching toward the ceiling. “So, what do you think about her?”
Sohrab studies the shifting crowd where young dancers whirl and weave around each other. He follows the direction of Cyrus’s finger.
“The girl in the pink dress?”
Cyrus groans, slapping his forehead. “Not her. If you’re into the curvy one, be my guest.” He watches for a reaction, but Sohrab stays blank. Since high school, with his sculpted jaw, full lips, and magnetic dance moves, Sohrab had always been popular with girls. But to Cyrus’s knowledge, he’d never been seen with one. “I mean the one dancing with her,” he says. “Short black dress. Her name is Rosa. She’s an actress.”
Sohrab laughs. “Isn’t she a bit out of your league?”
“And aren’t you a bit too cynical?” Cyrus knows girls like her aren’t easily won over, but miracles happen. Maybe someone will collapse tonight, and he’ll swoop in like a doctor in the movies, save the day, and impress Rosa. But he keeps that to himself. Sohrab lacks his imagination.
Sohrab
Sohrab doesn’t want to go with the fat girl or any girl for that matter. He doesn’t find them attractive. Never did. But it’s been only a few years since he’s found the courage to consider the implications of his desire. Immigrating to Canada helped too, being oceans away from his parents—specifically from his mother.
Cyrus looks at him the way a teacher looks at a student who just gave the wrong answer. Sohrab studies his old friend. His short bulky stature and owlish brows. It’s not hard to see that he’s not the sort of person who could attract women at a party. “I just want to adjust your expectations.”
Cyrus seems unfazed. He looks Sohrab up and down, drains his drink and places it on a table with a bang. “Then watch and learn.”
Sohrab watches Cyrus plunge into the dance floor, his awkward and offbeat moves forcing others aside. Not much to learn.
Cyrus nearly groans when he sees his mom approaching—a smile planted on her lips as she nods at everyone who notices her deliberate sashay. He takes a long swig of the questionable drink. He’ll probably need it.
His mother passes him a cookie. He takes a bite, and crumbs fall on the black and white marble.
“Enjoying the party?” she asks.
Sohrab observes the glass of water in his mom’s hand, an elaborate crystal design mimicking the ones he saw on a trip to Prague. “Very royal. I hear Leila’s father is loaded.”
“Your cousin hit the jackpot.” She rubs her son’s arm as if to console him. “When you were kids, you were better than Hamid in everything. Smarter, kinder and of course more handsome.” Sohrab notices that his mother is eyeing the young women dancing in the middle. He expects her next question to be about them, whether he’d have any interest in any of them.
Shirin
Shirin knows her son is gay. She has proof—if motherly instinct counts for anything. She wonders whose fault it is. Not fault, she corrects herself. There isn’t anything wrong with her son, as her therapist keeps reminding her. He’s just different than the majority, like someone who’s left-handed. Though Shirin secretly wishes he were left-handed instead.
Her gaze on the dance floor lingers until she hears her son’s voice. “Mom, are you lost?”
She smiles at her son and turns to watch the women swaying to the music. “I couldn’t accept any of these women as my daughter-in-law. I’m glad you have no plans to get married.”
He’s visibly taken aback. She doesn’t know why she said that. It’s like she tried to read through an advanced course she’s not yet prepared for. Not knowing how to proceed, she kisses his cheek and retreats. Hopefully, he’ll forget it—chalk it up to her mild state of inebriation.
On the way to her assigned table, Shirin’s eyes lock onto an old man in a wheelchair—likely the bride’s grandfather, the one they call Baba Habib. His stroke two months ago had overshadowed the wedding planning. Even Sohrab had paid extra to make his flight ticket refundable; there’d be no point in making this expensive trip if a death in the family called off the wedding.
When the old man catches her eye and waves her over, she drifts toward him and introduces herself.
“Ah, Hamid’s aunt,” he exclaims. “Now I see where the lucky guy gets his high cheekbones.”
She laughs. “Debatable if it’s luck, but I’m flattered.”
Baba Habib doesn’t seem to hear her. With a wave of hand, he beckons her to lean closer—the music has reached its crescendo. “Did you hear I almost died?”
He winks in a way that could be called flirty—a mischievous smirk fixed to his lips.
“I’m happy you’re here,” she says.
“My daughter made me promise something.” He looked at her expectantly. He strikes her as someone who enjoys the sound of his own stories, who wants to hear words of acknowledgment from his audience only to keep talking.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That I wouldn’t die until after the wedding.”
Shirin tilts her head, trying to come up with a harmless platitude. It’s not easy making conversation with him. Thankfully, he lifts a hand, swift for his age and condition. “Before you say anything, don’t you think that’s a fair request? Asking an octogenarian—who just had a stroke—not to die for two more months? Reasonable ask, wouldn’t you say? Weddings are, after all, very expensive.”
Baba Habib
Looking at the poor woman’s helpless expression, he knows he’s overdone it. His late wife used to remind him how cruel he could be, and now his children do, too. But he still doesn’t understand why everyone gets uncomfortable when he talks about dying. These young people! They don’t see that, at his age, the shadow of death is as present—and as expected—as salt in food.
There are things he wants to tell the woman, but he can’t. How can he admit he didn’t like her nephew Hamid when he met him? That he wished he had died, just to postpone the wedding? There was something about the boy. Some nonchalant swagger, some mannerism he couldn’t quite place. Like knows like: it takes a rascal to spot one.
The silence between them is slipping into awkwardness. He decides to help the poor woman—whose name he can’t recall—out of her misery.
“Kidding,” he says.
She adopts an apologetic face and excuses herself. His attention quickly shifts to a young woman approaching in the venue’s purple uniform. He remembers her. He’d asked for orange juice. She’s wearing a smile that’s surely part of her job description.
He takes the glass. Hamid’s folks had to pay extra for these glasses with their beautifully carved handles. He’s overheard the families bickering over expenses. “What’s your name, dear?”
The girl is momentarily surprised. “Goli.”
He downs his watery orange juice. “Goli, that’s a lovely ring you’re wearing. Are you married?”
Goli blushes. “Just engaged.”
“Good enough. Must be tough, working weddings if you’re single.”
If he, at his granddaughter’s wedding, is missing his wife—gone fourteen years—then surely this pretty girl would feel worse if she didn’t have someone waiting for her.
Goli smiles. “It’s hard to work here regardless.”
Goli
This old man isn’t the first to flirt with her, though probably the oldest. She knows her beauty is both a liability and an asset in this business, in a confined space where half-drunk people try on personalities they’d usually never have the guts to manage in their regular lives. Men yell and jump, bellies bouncing with each leap. Women hoot and stomp, oblivious to judgmental looks. Toward the end of the night, circles form, and guests’ hands occasionally linger a little too long. More than once, someone brushes a hand across Goli’s cheek under the guise of well-meaning joy—all in the name of fun. Goli’s fiancé keeps urging her to quit, as if landing this job had been easy.
“Goli, do you know what the bride’s parents made me promise?”
She does. It’s the third time he’s asked, just like it was the second time he forgot her name. But she plays along—appeasement is part of the job—only to hear the same line again.
“Do you think I should feign death tonight?” he asks with another wink. “Might save my granddaughter from that shark. Or at least rattle him a bit.”
Goli is speechless. Thankfully, her phone vibrates in her pocket, the perfect excuse to escape this stalemate.
It’s Saleh, her fiancé. “Give me the rundown.”
She expected the call. She expected that ask. And she expected him to skip the pleasantries—no honey, no I miss you. He must be patrolling with his superior a few blocks away.
She glances around, though she has mental notes of what to report.
“There’s music,” she says and stops there. These days, playing illegal music isn’t enough to bust a wedding. They need more. But she feels loyal to these beautiful guests—well, everyone but the groom. When they came for the site visit, he kept checking her out whenever the bride wasn’t looking.
“Of course, I can hear the damn music from here,” Saleh snaps, his impatience bleeding through.
His superior’s rough voice barks in the background. Goli hears a timid Yes sir before Saleh returns. “Is it mixed? Dresses? Alcohol?”
She looks at a man on the dance floor, already sweating through a loosened tie and drinking from a flask. “They’re not formally serving alcohol, but I can smell it.”
Saleh
As the night deepens, it grows colder. He really wants to get it over with. More than that, he’s counting the days until his military service ends. His buddies claim he’s lucky to be stationed in Karaj—mild weather, close to Tehran. But they don’t know about his night errands.
From their vantage point on the hill, Saleh has a good view of the building, the shadows of people moving inside. He relays Goli’s answer to his superior, SarvanHaddad, who leans on their Land Cruiser and demands he ask how many.
“How many people are drinking?” Saleh repeats into the phone.
“Saleh, how am I supposed to know? I have a job here, too.”
Saleh shoots a furtive glance at SarvanHaddad who’s already shaking his head. Saleh walks a few steps away to buy a sliver of privacy.
“Honey,” he whispers, “we talked about this, didn’t we? It’s just a year. Once we’ve saved enough, we can start our own life, have our own wedding.”
“Funding our wedding by ruining others?” Goli’s voice had dropped even lower, and he could barely hear her.
It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument. Each time Saleh feels he’s convinced Goli that they’re doing good, the next wedding unravels her conviction. Goli bonds with the guests, and suddenly Saleh’s the bad guy. One bride asked her to hold her bouquet. A bride’s father handed her a tip in an envelope. A groom’s mother invited her into a photo. Goli has a kind heart. That was what Saleh fell for to begin with. But a kind heart has its perils.
“Baby, please.”
“Maybe a third of the adults have been drinking,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “And yeah, there are quite a few low-cut dresses. I have to go, Saleh.” She hangs up before he thanks her.
Saleh strides toward his superior, puffs out his chest, and debriefs him.
His superior signals for him to follow.
“Isn’t it too early?” Saleh asks. “The bride and groom haven’t even arrived.”
“We’ll promise them we won’t come again if they pay well,” the man says, glancing at Saleh over his shoulder. “Make sure they see your gun. That’s why you’re here.”
Saleh looks down at his weapon. “Aren’t our uniforms scary enough, sir?”
Sarvan Haddad
He doesn’t understand kids like Saleh and their sentimental hearts. Every soldier he’s bossed around has had their qualms, but their moralities needed redefining. Maturing. The people who rent these secluded venues are just well-off families for whom a wad of bribe money means nothing. They want to party and show off in front of their surgeon and lawyer friends. No one’s going to get hurt. If anything, they’ll have an anecdote to regale their guests with at their next lavish gathering.
Lately, he’s developed a refreshed contempt for these people and their decadent, Westernized ways. He knows his annoyance is wrapped up with his teenage daughter and her rebellious streak—and his fear that one day, during a raid, he’ll come face-to-face with her, dressed indecently and wrapped in the arms of some ungodly bastard. Nowadays, before crashing parties, he has to first shake off his daughter’s image.
No one guards the gate to the venue, so he walks in with Saleh in tow. Inside, a woman in a strapless yellow dress spots him. She puts a hand to her mouth, runs into the banquet hall, and calls out a certain Uncle Masoud.
Uncle Masoud is lanky but has a chiseled face. He yanks off his tie and stuffs it in his pocket, as if shedding this symbol of Western vanity could excuse the party’s abundance of bare shoulders and low necklines. The music cuts off suddenly, plunging the hall into a deadly silence, broken only by whispers and occasional nervous laughter. SarvanHaddad feels dozens of eyes on him and on Saleh’s gun.
Uncle Masoud puffs his chest. “Hello Sir, come on in. We’re celebrating young love.”
“We’re on duty. We’ve received reports of some haram activities under this roof.” He gestures toward Saleh’s gun. “We’ll have to shut it down and arrest the violators.”
Uncle Masoud doesn’t look shocked. With a sweep of his hand, he ushers the intruders toward a corridor hidden behind thick curtains, as if Sarvan Haddad and Saleh were stricken with leprosy, better kept out of sight. On the way, Sarvan Haddad sneaks glances at the guests, scanning the young women looking at him with dread and sighing with relief when he doesn’t spot his daughter.
Uncle Masoud must be well-versed with these situations—probably the appointed man, the one with the money. SarvanHaddad knows the type: a voluble middle-aged man, smooth with words, amicable yet determined to save the feast. On occasions, he has even seen the same person fronting different parties. It’s a game.
Uncle Masoud steps closer. “Come on. Let’s reach an agreement. We can find a way out of this.” He plunges a hand into his pocket. “I understand you’re exhausted. We should pay you for your services.”
Masoud
What he gives the repulsive man seems to be enough. The man examines the bills like a clerk in a pawn shop, folds them, and tucks them into his chest pocket. Dirty money.
Masoud conjures a smile. “We have an understanding. And just to make sure, the newlyweds won’t be interrupted by any intervention, right?”
The man scratches his unkempt beard. “Our shift’ll be over soon. We won’t see each other.”
It’s a non-committal answer, but Masoud doesn’t press. He still has money set aside, though he hopes he won’t need to use it.
The bearded man waves silently and turns to leave, but the soldier leans forward and extends a hand. Masoud shakes it, hoping to build a rapport that might stave off any future interruptions. His faith in humanity has been shattered many times, yet he still believes small gestures can make a difference.
The superior squints at them and shakes his head in disapproval.
Back in the banquet hall, the music remains off, the crowd staring at him expectantly to hear the verdict.
He clears his throat and shouts to the DJ, “I thought this was supposed to be a party!”
Cheers erupt as the music blasts back to life. Dancers return to the floor. The uniformed girl approaches and offers him finger food. She has timid eyes—poor thing, she must’ve been terrified by the raid.
Masoud grabs a fried shrimp on a toothpick. “Goli, was it? You guys have a stressful job, dealing with those bastards,” he says, not waiting for a reply as he heads toward the bathroom.
At the sink, he smooths his tie as best he can and hangs it from his neck. Only now does he realize his hands are shaking. The good thing is he can drop the act now. He can lower his shoulders, exhale slowly.
Someone clears his throat, and Masoud startles. A man watches him from a nearby sink. He cracks a smile and says, “We dodged a bullet, thanks to you. Good job!” The man reaches for a flask in his coat and hands it to Masoud. “You need a drop.”
Masoud accepts it, careful to drink without letting his lips touch the rim.
He passes it back. “Good whiskey. Thanks.”
He extends his other hand, but the man offers his sleeve since his hands are wet. “My name is Saeed. We’re family friends of the bride.”
“I’m Hamid’s uncle. And the wedding guardian, I suppose.” He fiddles with his tie. “I’m a divorcee with my children abroad. Lucky you, being here with your family.”
“Just the wife,” Saeed says, “My daughter is also gone.” He points at Masoud’s throat. “Your tie is a little skewed.”
Masoud shakes his head. “My daughter used to tie my ties. I got lazy.”
“Same,” Saeed says, under his breath.
Saeed
It’s been four years, and he still can’t bring himself to say it: my daughter is dead. Instead, he balances around the thought, poking it like a bruise.
Saeed’s subconscious thinks, if he keeps it ambiguous, he might confuse the angel of death, and his daughter might resurrect.
To be fair, he’s become better at this—at having a dead daughter. He’s learned to collect himself and say, “Yes, we had a daughter. Her name was Sarina. But she was killed in an accident near the Caspian Sea.” These days, he can deliver the sentence with no quiver in his voice.
But when someone asks him offhand, his tongue rebels. Gone comes instead of dead, as if she’s just spending the weekend at their villa on the banks of the Caspian Sea.
At least his tears have dried up. Unlike Simin, who’s prone to the slightest triggers, he has nothing left. Just minutes ago, she mentioned to him how a young woman’s fluffy dress resembled what Sarina wore at her graduation party. The tremble in her voice was a sign, for both, that she needed to retreat to the bathroom. He slipped into the men’s room, too—to collect his thoughts, to strategize how to steer Simin clear of that dress for the rest of the night. The death of a child often breaks a marriage, but so far, they’ve survived it. These days, keeping it that way has been Saeed’s sole goal in life. His only form of relief.
Masoud squints at himself in the mirror and plays with the tie. “Well, sometimes the only way to lure them back is to get them married.” He winks and taps Saeed’s shoulder.
The man leaves, and Saeed counts to ten before stepping out, wondering if Simin is also out, if her tears have ceased to come.
Simin pokes her head inside the bathroom. Her makeup and hair are composed. “What’s taking you so long?”
She’s become good at reconstructing herself after every tiny breakdown. Now she looks like a typical happy woman at a wedding. “Chitchat,” he tells her. He gently nudges her bare shoulder, and they re-enter the party.
In the main hall, the dance floor is packed. More guests arrived while he was cooped up in the bathroom.
“I heard the bride and groom are fifteen minutes away,” she shouts over the loud music.
Even the strain in her voice can’t conceal her sadness. That’s the thing about long marriages—every gesture betrays you. She must know his mood, as well. They’re both just bad actors, desperate ones. He knows that happy occasions make her sad, while sad ones make her feel guilty and happy. Whenever he consoles her, telling her it’s normal, he feels like he’s saying it to himself, too.
Simin
Simin likes to think of all the young women swirling on the dance floor as her daughters. They were once Sarina’s friends and classmates, but they never lost touch. They include Simin in their plans, bring her flowers on Mother’s Day, and invite her to their weddings and birthdays. She likes to believe that, by losing one daughter, she’s gained many. Sometimes, small lies keep sorrow at bay. In that sense, she pities Saeed. He’s a grieving father with no substitute for his loss.
Rosa, Sarina’s lively childhood friend, waves at Simin, inviting her onto the floor, but Simin shakes her head. Rosa whispers something to the squat man across from her and dances her way out.
Rosa wraps her arms around Simin. “How are you?” she asks, still bopping along to the beat.
Simin blinks a few times, wondering if her breakdown is visible. That’s her pattern at weddings. In her experience, marriage has a way of stealing Sarina’s friends away. Maybe the fear of losing Leila triggered this sudden wave of sadness. Simin wasn’t born yesterday; she’s seen how young women soon vanish into their conjugal duties.
“Go, have fun, Rosa!” Simin urges, nudging the young woman back toward the dance floor. “I enjoy watching from the sidelines.”
Rosa cackles. “Actually, you were the best excuse for me to ditch that man.”
Simin glances back at the man. His slow movements betray how much he’s had to drink.
“He’s not bad looking,” she says, trying to play devil’s advocate. He’s, at best, mediocre.
“He’s a bad breathing medical student. When was the last time a doctor and an actress lived happily ever after? Besides, if I dance with the same guy twice at a place like this, friends and family start talking. So, once again, thanks!”
She makes an exaggerated bow, like the ones after her theater shows.
Simin changes the subject to Rosa’s favorite topic. “So, what’ve you been working on? Theater? Cinema?”
Rosa’s face brightens. “We’re rehearsing a play based on a piece called La Ronde. In each act, a character from the previous act has a scene with a new character, then that new character meets another in the next act and so on. I’ll be—” she says, pausing, adopting a dreamy pose, hand in her hair, “—the Young Wife. Premiere’s in two months!”
Simin shivers at the words the young wife, her instinctive reaction to her pseudo-daughters marrying off and disappearing. “Wonderful plot! I’ll be there.”
Rosa
This poor woman! Rosa can’t look at Simin without thinking of Sarina, even after four years. Being an actress helps. Simin keeps saying that Sarina’s friends are like her daughters, and Rosa plays along—hopefully well enough.
“You’ll be on the invitation list, right next to my parents,” Rosa says, knowing Simin will only attend to feel included, not out of any love for the art.
She wants to add, I owe my acting to Sarina. But she doesn’t. Not the right time or place. Besides, Simin already knows the story—how Sarina rallied their mutual friends to pitch in and enroll Rosa in an acting class. A fait-accompli for a shy girl who shed her inhibitions halfway through the course.
Rosa pulls her phone from her purse to check her reflection and that’s when she sees it: a barrage of missed calls from Gandom. She doesn’t have to respond in the middle of the wedding. But it’s Gandom, after all.
She holds up her phone. “I need to attend to a drama queen.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Simin says as she drifts toward a circle of women her own age, all of whom have healthy and happy children.
Rosa takes a deep breath and calls back. The line hasn’t even finished its first ring when Gandom picks up. “Hello, traitor.”
The surrounding noise gives Rosa a perfect excuse to disregard the jab. “Sorry, can’t hear you well. Everything okay?”
“Have they arrived?” Gandom sucks in a breath and repeats, “Traitor.”
Rosa decides if she ignores the word traitor, she can maintain the illusion of a normal conversation.
“They aren’t here yet.”
“I still can’t believe you went. He’s an evil man and, by showing up, you’re only helping Leila indulge in her naivete. You’re just helping her walk straight into heartbreak.”
Gandom slurs her words. She doesn’t sound in good shape, though lately, even sober, she hasn’t been herself.
It wasn’t an impulsive choice to go to the wedding. Rosa and the others discussed it at length—the moral dilemma. In the end, they agreed it wasn’t their place to judge whatever had happened between Gandom and Hamid. Besides, it would’ve killed Leila had they all boycotted the wedding.
“Gandom—”
“Save your preaching for someone who needs it.”
There are moments, especially when she’s dealing with Gandom’s outbursts, that Rosa asks herself: Why Sarina? If Death had to come for one of her friends, why the sweetest one? The thought fills her with shame, heavy and bitter.
Gandom
You’d think time would help. That enough therapy—expensive, exhausting, endless—would help. That making out with other boys would help. But a wedding night is as certain as death, even if the latest statistics promise that one in three marriages ends in divorce.
Every relationship has an expiration date—that’s what Hamid used to say, grooming her for the moment she’d find him with her friend. She’d tried to warn Leila. She’d told her bluntly, desperately, that for him, relationships were fickle. It didn’t work, and now they’re celebrating their love tonight in front of their mutual friends.
Gandom has already lost them both. She can’t lose the rest of her friends.
“You’re acting like a child,” Rosa shouts over the music.
Gandom’s sprawled on the couch in her pajamas. When she presses her face into the brown fabric, she can almost smell the sex—Hamid at various stages of pleasure.
“And you’re acting like a boring adult. Enjoy your betrayal.” She hangs up.
She’s considered—maybe a hundred times—crashing the wedding, torching it all, exposing that charlatan of the groom for what he is, to cement her reputation as that crazy bitch. She even brought it up with her therapist, who flatly responded, “What if someone films it and it goes viral. What would ten-years-from-now Gandom say?”
She scrolls through her contact list, eyes landing on Mojgan—another traitor. But maybe one with some sympathy left. She’s overweight, which makes her less popular, a fact she tries to compensate for with kindness. Mojgan would never admit it, but it’s something Gandom often says behind her back. Every time she does, people roll their eyes, but no one has ever disagreed.
“Hey, hang on,” Mojgan says. A beat. “Sorry, I was munching a baklava.”
“I thought you were on a diet.”
“This wedding was the goal. Having sweets on the day of doesn’t change anything.”
“So? Tell me.”
“Oh, people don’t recognize me at first. They’re too polite to say, You lost weight. So they go with, You look great.” Mojgan’s laugh bursts through the line, riding on the loud music in the background.
Gandom sighs. “I was asking about Leila and Hamid. Are they there yet?”
“No,” Mojgan says after a pause, and the air around her word hardens.
Even from this distance, Gandom can feel the shift, even in the presence of the euphoric energy surrounding Mojgan. Gandom’s done it again—dragged someone else’s joy into her spiral. Minutes before Hamid first mentioned the idea of relationships having expiration dates, she remembers now, he’d told her how selfish she was.
“Okay, sorry. Go on. Any handsome guys?”
“There’s this med student, Cyrus.” Mojgan sounds unsure—not about the boy, Gandom knows, but about whether Gandom is still really listening.
Mojgan
The air shifts around her, likely triggered by the diminishing music. Mojgan glances toward the gate, half-expecting another raid, but people look relaxed—excited, even.
“Oh, nice! A doctor-to-be,” Gandom says.
“I don’t know! I don’t know,” Mojgan says, trying to contain her zeal, but it bursts out high-pitched. “I mean, he danced with me!”
He did, but she saw the way his eyes followed Rosa. She’s used to that: the male gaze and Rosa. And losing thirteen kilograms—with all the dizziness, fatigue, and sheer willpower it took—doesn’t seem to have changed a thing. Her therapist says her lack of confidence can’t be quantified by weight.
“That’s good, Mojgan. Keep it up,” Gandom says.
The DJ asks the guests to clear the dance floor. “The newlyweds are almost here!” he says. “Get ready to welcome them!” Small baskets of confetti and rose petals pass from hand to hand.
Mojgan watches Cyrus rush back to his friend, the one visiting from Canada—undeniably handsome but completely off limits; if the hand gestures, groomed eyebrows, and hip-cocked stance are anything to go by, he’s very gay.
“What’s happening?” Gandom asks, a flicker of worry in her voice.
“They’re coming,” Mojgan whispers as the DJ instructs everyone to toss rose petals when the music signals the couple’s entrance.
“Where’s he now?”
Mojgan clenches her jaw. Always Hamid. Always Gandom’s drama. “Gandom, they haven’t arrived. Stop asking about him.”
“I meant your doctor-to-be?”
“Oh,” Mojgan blinks. She’s not used to Gandom showing interest in her life. “Across the hall.”
“The farthest corner?”
“Yes.”
“Walk over. Stand next to him when they walk in. Trust me, the romance of the moment can make miracles happen.”
It sounds like something her therapist would say. “Okay.”
“Mojgan, I’m hanging up so you aren’t distracted. Tell me how it goes later, okay? Be with him.”
As unlikely as it is for Gandom to put Mojgan’s interest over hers, it’s oddly heartwarming. In favor of Mojgan’s quest for love, her selfish friend can wait to hear whether Hamid keeps his goatee, if Leila curls her hair. She takes a step. Then another. As the distance between them halves, Cyrus looks up and straightens. His expression wavers—as if unsure whether he should keep looking. A good sign? Perhaps. She walks faster, each step more resolute than the last.
And then, just as Cyrus looks away, she hears the screams.
Not cheers. Screams—from the opposite end of the hall.
She freezes.
Cyrus seems oblivious, engrossed in conversation with the Canadian.
A man’s voice rings out, “Leila’s grandfather fainted. Is there a doctor here?”
Mojgan picks up her pace. She’ll ask Cyrus for help. She’ll drag him if she has to—yes, touching him, what she wanted him to initiate during the dance. A medical student might be the best they have here. And maybe—just maybe—something intimate will emerge from chaos.
Mehdi M. Kashani’s fiction has appeared in West Branch, CRAFT, and Coolest American Stories 2025, among other publications. His debut short story collection, A Tehran So Quiet, was published by the University of Alberta Press. His work has been a finalist for Canada’s National Magazine Awards and shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize. He lives with his partner and baby daughter in Toronto, Canada. To learn more about him, visit http://www.mehdimkashani.com