Page 24 of The Mismatch

When they separated from each other, she said, ‘Sorry, I haven’t kissed in a while.’ She couldn’t help it; she felt as though she had to give a disclaimer, just in case he was smiling to stop himself from laughing, though a part of her doubted that.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. His eyes were fixed on her mouth and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip before he bent down and kissed her again. This time she let herself close hereyes and follow his lead, finding that she was enjoying the experience.

‘Shall we go inside?’ he said, his voice husky, as he nodded towards her flat.

Caught up in the moment, she almost said yes. She had to remind herself that he wouldn’t be satisfied with kissing all night, and that was all she would do with him.

‘I want to take things slow,’ she said. ‘I feel like no one does that anymore.’

She saw something in his eyes, surprise and then something like a challenge being accepted.

‘Sure,’ he said, before kissing her again. This time the kiss was deeper, one hand cupping her face, the other tightly holding her waist. And just when she began to melt into him, just when she fully let herself go, he abruptly pulled away, a smile on his face.

‘See you later then, Soraya.’

It was only when she was back in her flat that she allowed the situation to fully sink in. Inexplicably, she realised she wanted to see him again. Wanted to kiss him again. And perhaps, for the first time, she considered the very real possibility of going further.

CHAPTER 10

Neda

Tehran, 1977

The atmosphere was heavy and humid. Disruption stirring.

Some people wanted change, though others, the minority, were happy with the way things were. There were many, many demonstrations demanding change for different reasons. Often the students of Tehran University would mask their demonstrations against the Shah with complaints about the high university fees. Iranians were generally inquisitive by nature and each protest often became much larger than anticipated. It wasn’t just Neda who liked gossip; it seemed most Iranians did as well.

Despite this, when all around is slow-building chaos, it becomes normalised, and so her mind was elsewhere, on more immediate concerns, like the fact that it was her final semester of university before she graduated.

The air conditioning in the coffeehouse Neda sat in with her girlfriends gave the atmosphere a stale quality, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Her hijab hung loose, exposing the top of her head. Underneath the enclosing fabric she wore a long-sleeved striped T-shirt, with flared jeans and clogs.

‘I heard she was flirting with Tariq even though she’s engaged to Hamid …’ one of her friends said.

‘Tariq! But she said she didn’t like him.’ Neda leant forward, as though being closer to her friend would give her further insight.

‘You know Pouran, she loves the attention!’

‘Oh, stop looking so worried, Neda dear. It’s not a crime to flirt,’ Shanauz said.

Neda opened her mouth to say,Actually it is Islamically, but thought better of it. She didn’t want to be the preacher of the group. Instead she drank her café glacé; the sweetness of vanilla ice cream mixed with strong nutty coffee was a delight, and she had to force herself to slow down.

A man made his way over to them and the group of women stopped talking. He had long shaggy hair and a well-groomed beard. ‘Ladies,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Behind him a group of young men sat drinking their beverages. One of them smiled at the women, but the other two kept their gazes downturned as they took exceptionally long sips of their chai.

Her girlfriends wagged their eyebrows, excitement stirring. Neda frowned, her small lips turned downwards. She was disappointed. She wanted to continue gossiping.

‘Oh, why not!’ one of the women said, without consulting the group. Chairs were moved around and the four men joined them at their table. One man opened a pastry box to expose a dozen various shirini, varying from nan-e nokhodchi to ghotab.

One of the shyer men distributed the sweets to each person. It took him a while to get to Neda because each of the women said they didn’t want the shirini when they were first offered, at which the man insisted, and back and forth. Taarofing was something Neda could not stand, despite it being engrained into Iranian culture. She wished instead people would do, and say, what they wanted without wasting time.

Once the man was closer to Neda she recognised him from university.

He had caught her eye on several occasions, smiling at her in the corridors. It was only when Shanauz had said, ‘He’s always smiling at you,’ that she began to take proper notice though. Neda seldom smiled back. It was wrong, she thought, and what was he smilingatexactly? She didn’t want to encourage him; she wasn’t that kind of girl.

One of his bouncy brown curls fell in front of his face and he laughed, powerless to brush it back with his hands full. He blew it away, and in so doing pulled a face that made Neda laugh too. She covered her mouth with her hand.

He was in front of her now, smiling broadly. His teeth were small and white, crowded together but straight. They were like a child’s, the sight endearing. Neda picked up a kolompeh, a date-filled cookie, without fuss. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Merci,’ she said, her eyes not meeting his. She had gained a tan on her face, causing the freckles across her nose to appear more prominent.