She’s stunningly beautiful; the rays of the light shining on her perfectly etched face marked by her signature almond eyes. But the substance of the picture seems artificial like so many other photographs produced by those who refer themselves as professional. “My is too big, my cheeks are too puffy, I’m simply not photogenic,” are the slurs he throws around in his head full unsubstantial worries. He can recall his mother retelling the story of his birth. The idea that a spider would exit her womb seemed to be a possibility to her, after all it was her first and only child and she hadn’t taken care of herself throughout the pregnancy. “The camera isn’t doing my wife justice, she’s a goddess worthy of a picture that can capsulate her every splendid physical trait,” he thinks to himself. It’s only been three years since he married her, his cherished and lovable high school sweetheart who refused to marry him until they both attainted their college degrees. Since the time they met, about nine in half years ago, they spent every minute in adornment. Most of the time it was silent out of both fear and respect for their elders. He can still remember spending some quality time alone with her without any worry that a crazed relative would burst through the door with a sharp knife in his hand.
“Pedram hurry and pay for the pictures, were going to be late.”
Late? What exactly are they going to be late for? She never rushes to pay for anything; monetary affairs hold a great deal of value in her eyes.
“What are we going to be late for my dear?” His question was forced from his lips in a manner inconsistent with the last word used in his sentence.
“I can’t believe this, you forgot! I must have told you three times last night, obviously you weren’t listening to me! You must have had something more important to do than to listen to my boring voice.!”
“My dear don’t be silly, what’s more important than listening to your tender and loving voice. I just don’t have a good memory that’s all.” She looks at him with the a compassionate dissatisfaction. His hand gentle presses toward her soft hand. Her frustration grows; he always evades learning a lesson by bribing her with sensuality.
“No Pedram, you always do this. You never learn and you always get off easy. Not this time Agha-Mister.”
“Chashm-alright my dear, I promise to attentively listen to every word that escapes those velvet lips.”
“Strange how every time I talk about going to my sister’s house you suddenly become uninterested.” It’s not what you think. Her sister isn’t the problem but rather it’s her sister’s raspy voiced husband he can’t stand. First and foremost, he’s a companion of the Fatima Commandos, meaning he’s a disciplinary police-Nirooye Entezami, charged with ensuring that the religious laws of the land is being upheld. Second, he’s the complete opposite of Pedram, they have nothing in common. Expressed in more curt words, he’s a jackass. What other type of person can take pleasure in ruining a perfectly splendid day with a significant other? “Don’t hold her hand, stop hugging your fiancée, pull your headscarf forward, don’t wear such a tight montos-body covering…” these are only a few of the statements to blunder out of a disciplinary police’s big mouth. God forbid they should go after the real bad guys, the rapists, killers, murderers and thieves. Clearly there are more important affairs to tend to like arresting young couples making out in the un-ventured corners of public parks. The traffic police are the only real cops in Iran. They’re the ones putting their life on the line day in and day out for the sake of the general public. Crazed drivers speeding down crowded street corners running over anyone daring to cross the street, even small children and the elderly. Police officers in the same rank as Pedram prevent such tragedies from ever occurring; they are the real heroes of their country.
“I don’t think I can make it tonight dear.”
“Oh really? And why is that?”
“Well..I have to be at work early in the morning and….”
“Bas-enough Pedram, save your breathe. You’re coming tonight and you’re going to be nice to Asghar.”
This really isn’t fair, that jerk ruins Pedram’s day with his irate ideas and ridiculously stupid conversations on the persistence of the Velayte Faqih-Theocracy. But frankly, you can’t get out of a family dinner enragement in Iran without a good reason.
“Basheh-okay. Let me say this though, I may have to come but I don’t have to talk to that idiot that calls himself your brother in law.”
Hasti, Pedram’s jigar or love rolls her eyes at his comment and then gives an approving smile. The reality is that Ardavan, who prefers to be called Asghar because it appears in the Holy Qoran, is a moron and everyone acquainted with him is well aware of this unfortunate fact.
Edited by Name Man Namie, 11 December 2009 - 07:54 PM.