There’s a soft tapping on the bedroom door.  I ignore it, and after a while I only hear dead quiet.  Well, except for Farid snoring.  Then the tapping starts again.  I keep ignoring it, same as before, but the tap-tap-tapping intensifies into the click of a doorknob turning.  Nasrin is an hourglass silhouetted in the widening crack of light.  “You still awake?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

The room eases into darkness again as the door gently shuts.  I hear footsteps creak across the floor, then the bed rocks as she settles onto the edge and I make room for her hip.  There’s a click and everything is flooded with the bright murk of the nightstand lamp.  I throw an arm over my face while sparks fizzle on the insides of my eyelids.

“Farid is sorry for getting upset at you.”  Nasrin has to apologize for her husband because he never will.  That’s not how Persian men are.  “He was really concerned about you.  He didn’t have any other way to show it.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point.  You’re his sister-in-law.  He has a responsibility to look after you.  The same way Saman would look after me if I was staying with you.”

That almost makes me laugh out loud.  I can’t picture Saman looking after anything but the remote, and he manages to lose that all the time.

Her voice becomes grave.  “You shamed Farid when you didn’t let him pick you up and bring you home.  Do you have any idea how that made him feel?”

I turn my face to the wall.  “I know, Nasrin.  I know!  I apologized, again and again.”  Easy words to say, hard words to feel.  Guilt seeps into me with every breath.  I knew I was shaming Farid.  But I did it anyway.

“What happened today?”

“What happened today?” I repeat, turning back to her.  “Today a complete stranger asked me if I was okay.  No one ever asks me if I’m okay!”  My frustration is leaking into tears.  “It’s true, you know.  No one asks me if I’m okay.  Not even you.  It’s always, how is Saman doing?  How’s his family?  Like I don’t even matter.”

Nasrin uses her nightgown sleeve to dry my cheeks.  “You’re his wife, Nooshin.  Of course people are going to ask you about Saman and his family.  They’re your happiness.”

They’re your happiness.  The words settle inside my heart like stones.

“You just need to make some friends,” she’s saying.  “Doesn’t Saman have any female cousins your age in Kansas City?  Aren’t there other young wives at your mosque?”

Not this conversation again.  How am I supposed to make friends?  I’m always moving from one strange unfamiliar city to the next, and my husband forbids me to leave the apartment without him, and the few people I meet gape and stare.  My only social interaction is at mosque every Friday, when Saman hustles me in and out of the women’s section.

Then an idea strikes me.  An utterly, totally, completely insane idea.  Nick could be my friend.

I glance at his business card on the nightstand, where it lies next to my recharging phone.  “Isn’t it stupid that we can’t have male friends?”

Nasrin is interrupted in mid-sentence.  Her mouth goes slack with outrage.  “We’re married women!” she finally gasps.

I watch the metallic UCLA logo shine in the lamplight.  I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to have Nick as a friend, but my head just fills with static.  The imagining is too hard.  No boy has ever been my friend before.  Maybe it’s better that way.  I wouldn’t be a very interesting friend from the boy’s perspective.  What could I talk about except the trials of housework, a new recipe I tried, quarreling with my mother-in-law?

Nasrin follows my gaze to the business card.  Her hand pounces on it.  She inspects the card with obvious disapproval, frowning and holding it a safe distance away.  “This Nick Roberts, he gave you a ride home?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s in the Latin American Studies department at UCLA?  Do you know what he does there?”

“He studies Mexico,” I say.  Wistfully.  The colorful bustle of Tijuana surrounds me when I close my eyes.  I feel the freedom of being a foreigner again.  I hear Nick asking if I’m okay.

Her hand becomes a lie detector on my bicep, pinching tightly.  “You didn’t just accept a ride from that guy.  You went down to Tijuana today, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t.”  But I say it too weakly.  I’m a terrible liar.

“You promised Farid you wouldn’t go down to Tijuana!”  Nasrin’s anger is a quiet echo in the bedroom.  Her pinching tightens even more.

“Ouch!  You’re hurting me.”

The pain stops abruptly.  When I open my eyes she’s methodically ripping the business card into pieces.  I watch the UCLA logo disappear in an onslaught of manicured fingernails.  She sweeps the pieces into her palm and empties it over the wastebasket, causing a tiny snowfall of paper.  The notion of Nick as my friend glimmers and dies.

“Now your husband will never know that you shamed him too,” Nasrin whispers so I can barely hear.  “Promise you’ll never go down to Tijuana again.  Swear it on the Quran this time.”

I don’t say anything.  I just pull the comforter up to my chin.

“Swear it!” she hisses.

“Okay, okay.  I swear it.”

“On the Quran!”  But I’m saved before Nasrin makes me respond.  Raindrops begin to plink the roof tiles overhead, quickening into castanets.  She glances up gratefully.  “Rain!  Praise be to God.  We need it so badly.”

Then there’s a solitary crack of thunder.  A child’s piercing wail cuts through the townhome.  Farid thrashes in bed, his snoring interrupted.  “Zan!” – wife – he half-yells, half-groans.  She’s being summoned to her maternal duties.  My sister clicks off the lamp, plunging us back into darkness. 

There’s a soft tapping on the bedroom door.  I ignore it, and after a while I only hear dead quiet.  Well, except for Farid snoring.  Then the tapping starts again.  I keep ignoring it, same as before, but the tap-tap-tapping intensifies into the click of a doorknob turning.  Nasrin is an hourglass silhouetted in the widening crack of light.  “You still awake?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

The room eases into darkness again as the door gently shuts.  I hear footsteps creak across the floor, then the bed rocks as she settles onto the edge and I make room for her hip.  There’s a click and everything is flooded with the bright murk of the nightstand lamp.  I throw an arm over my face while sparks fizzle on the insides of my eyelids.

“Farid is sorry for getting upset at you.”  Nasrin has to apologize for her husband because he never will.  That’s not how Persian men are.  “He was really concerned about you.  He didn’t have any other way to show it.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point.  You’re his sister-in-law.  He has a responsibility to look after you.  The same way Saman would look after me if I was staying with you.”

That almost makes me laugh out loud.  I can’t picture Saman looking after anything but the remote, and he manages to lose that all the time.

Her voice becomes grave.  “You shamed Farid when you didn’t let him pick you up and bring you home.  Do you have any idea how that made him feel?”

I turn my face to the wall.  “I know, Nasrin.  I know!  I apologized, again and again.”  Easy words to say, hard words to feel.  Guilt seeps into me with every breath.  I knew I was shaming Farid.  But I did it anyway.

“What happened today?”

“What happened today?” I repeat, turning back to her.  “Today a complete stranger asked me if I was okay.  No one ever asks me if I’m okay!”  My frustration is leaking into tears.  “It’s true, you know.  No one asks me if I’m okay.  Not even you.  It’s always, how is Saman doing?  How’s his family?  Like I don’t even matter.”

Nasrin uses her nightgown sleeve to dry my cheeks.  “You’re his wife, Nooshin.  Of course people are going to ask you about Saman and his family.  They’re your happiness.”

They’re your happiness.  The words settle inside my heart like stones.

“You just need to make some friends,” she’s saying.  “Doesn’t Saman have any female cousins your age in Kansas City?  Aren’t there other young wives at your mosque?”

Not this conversation again.  How am I supposed to make friends?  I’m always moving from one strange unfamiliar city to the next, and my husband forbids me to leave the apartment without him, and the few people I meet gape and stare.  My only social interaction is at mosque every Friday, when Saman hustles me in and out of the women’s section.

Then an idea strikes me.  An utterly, totally, completely insane idea.  Nick could be my friend.

I glance at his business card on the nightstand, where it lies next to my recharging phone.  “Isn’t it stupid that we can’t have male friends?”

Nasrin is interrupted in mid-sentence.  Her mouth goes slack with outrage.  “We’re married women!” she finally gasps.

I watch the metallic UCLA logo shine in the lamplight.  I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to have Nick as a friend, but my head just fills with static.  The imagining is too hard.  No boy has ever been my friend before.  Maybe it’s better that way.  I wouldn’t be a very interesting friend from the boy’s perspective.  What could I talk about except the trials of housework, a new recipe I tried, quarreling with my mother-in-law?

Nasrin follows my gaze to the business card.  Her hand pounces on it.  She inspects the card with obvious disapproval, frowning and holding it a safe distance away.  “This Nick Roberts, he gave you a ride home?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s in the Latin American Studies department at UCLA?  Do you know what he does there?”

“He studies Mexico,” I say.  Wistfully.  The colorful bustle of Tijuana surrounds me when I close my eyes.  I feel the freedom of being a foreigner again.  I hear Nick asking if I’m okay.

Her hand becomes a lie detector on my bicep, pinching tightly.  “You didn’t just accept a ride from that guy.  You went down to Tijuana today, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t.”  But I say it too weakly.  I’m a terrible liar.

“You promised Farid you wouldn’t go down to Tijuana!”  Nasrin’s anger is a quiet echo in the bedroom.  Her pinching tightens even more.

“Ouch!  You’re hurting me.”

The pain stops abruptly.  When I open my eyes she’s methodically ripping the business card into pieces.  I watch the UCLA logo disappear in an onslaught of manicured fingernails.  She sweeps the pieces into her palm and empties it over the wastebasket, causing a tiny snowfall of paper.  The notion of Nick as my friend glimmers and dies.

“Now your husband will never know that you shamed him too,” Nasrin whispers so I can barely hear.  “Promise you’ll never go down to Tijuana again.  Swear it on the Quran this time.”

I don’t say anything.  I just pull the comforter up to my chin.

“Swear it!” she hisses.

“Okay, okay.  I swear it.”

“On the Quran!”  But I’m saved before Nasrin makes me respond.  Raindrops begin to plink the roof tiles overhead, quickening into castanets.  She glances up gratefully.  “Rain!  Praise be to God.  We need it so badly.”

Then there’s a solitary crack of thunder.  A child’s piercing wail cuts through the townhome.  Farid thrashes in bed, his snoring interrupted.  “Zan!” – wife – he half-yells, half-groans.  She’s being summoned to her maternal duties.  My sister clicks off the lamp, plunging us back into darkness.