There’s almost nothing on late night TV to indicate that it’s the week before Christmas.  Even the commercials are strangely subdued, as if retailers have quit hoping for an economic recovery and better sales.  I flip aimlessly without watching, making bluish patterns that flicker across the walls and ceiling.  The effect is claustrophobic, shrinking this studio apartment even smaller.  For four years I’ve been sleeping in the kitchen, dressing in the living room, eating in the bedroom.  And now I added another person to these cramped quarters.

“Nick.  Read it now.”  Nooshin is sitting on the futon.  My laptop trembles at the end of a slender outstretched arm.  I can’t see past it very well because she’s wearing my hiking headlamp, half-blinding me.

I take the laptop.  Its glowing screen is filled with the latest draft of the work plan for preserving the Korea Textile maquiladora archive.  Reading it I sigh in frustration, in resignation.  Not only is she a better writer than I am, she’s a better planner too.  Details that never occurred to me are suddenly present and accounted for.  At least I pegged it from the very beginning.  Nooshin – mind like a steel trap.

“So?” she asks.  “What do you think?”

“I think it’s pretty fucking great.  Let’s run with it.”  I pass the laptop back.

“Okay!”  She adjusts position, splitting her concentration between the laptop and the supplemental grant application.  Her headlamp beam plays over the insanely long triplicate form, most of which has already been filled in.  Her block-printing isn’t typewriter quality, but it’s damn close.

“Why don’t you just finish it in the morning?” I half-ask, half-suggest.

“Because you said we should finish it today.”

“I’m willing to waive that requirement.”

She looks up, blinding me with the headlamp again.  “I’ll sleep better if I get it done.”

I raise a forearm against the beam.  “Jesus.  You’re a maniac with that thing.  Could we just turn on the lights?”

“This is fun!  I’ve always wanted to wear a headlamp.  Like in those night hikes that Jerry Schaffer talks about.”  My dog-eared copy of Jeffrey Schaffer’s classic Pacific Crest Trail guidebook has become Nooshin’s favorite reading material.  “Anyway, stop distracting me.  I want to finish this.”  The beam looks down again.

My aimless flipping brings me to a GIRLS GONE WILD! infomercial.  I watch their curvaceous glee with disinterest.  Big and often fake boobs, throwing-up quantities of booze, a forced quality to the boundless debauchery.  I remember flunking that class at Iowa State.

Nooshin’s headlight beam is watching the TV too.  “Is that what spring break is really like?”

“Hell if I know,” I say.  “I always went home to work on the farm.”

I flip to another channel.  The girls are replaced by a get-rich-quick infomercial hosted by twin dwarfs in suits.  Something about buying real estate out of foreclosure.  A sexy pitch, considering that about half of LA is in foreclosure right now.  But people still need the money – or just the financing – to buy foreclosed properties.  The dwarfs don’t have anything to say about that, surprise surprise.

I click off the TV and set the remote aside and lie back in my sleeping bag.  “How’s it going?  You almost finished?”

The scratch of pen on paper continues.  “Hmmm.  I think I’m halfway done.  Just fall asleep if you can.”

I close my eyes, but I don’t stop talking.  “I got a Christmas card from Phoebe.  Last week.  It was the corporate kind, with her employer’s logo on the front.  I couldn’t even tell if her signature was genuine.”  I remember studying the scrawled name, the only personalized thing about the card.  Straight from the heart, baby.

“Well, you guys did break up,” Nooshin says matter-of-factly.

“Valid point.”

“My mother-in-law, she told me about this special kind of card in Iran.  It says ‘Will you marry me – temporarily’ on the front.  It’s called a mutah marriage.  The duration of the marriage and the dowry are written inside the card.  Like, one hour and no dowry.  Afterward there’s no divorce.  The marriage just expires.”

Now my eyes are open again.  Wide open.  This is the first time Nooshin has ever talked about Iranian customs.  “No offense, but that sounds like prostitution.”

“Duh.”

I wait for more, but there isn’t any.  “You said you’ve never gone back.  Ever want to?”

“No.”  The word is a door slamming.

Time to change the subject.  “You know, you’re really good at this grant stuff.  I might have you help me with an application to this foundation in south Texas I’ve never heard of.  They make grants up to $500 in support of border cross-migration research, mostly in the Rio Grande corridor.”

“Sounds promising,” Nooshin says.  More pen scratching on paper.  I can’t tell if she’s really listening.

“Depends on your definition of promising.  I put my odds at about 2%.  Slightly better than playing slots in Vegas.”

Suddenly the headlamp beam is fixed on me.  “Nick.  I almost forgot to tell you.  I was thinking of going to midnight Mass at this Catholic church a couple blocks away.  You know, the one across from Ardmore Park?  But their sign said midnight Mass was at 11 PM!  Isn’t that the funniest thing ever?”  Then her voice catches.  “Or does midnight Mass always start an hour early?  Are you Catholic?  Do you know?”

I start laughing, a little at first, then a lot, until I’m almost sobbing, because Nooshin’s voice is a lifeline to a part of me I thought died, and suddenly all I want for Christmas is a conversation with her about why the hell she’s interested in not-so-midnight Mass.