Page 45 of The Mismatch

‘You know what,’ he said. ‘How about we make a deal? I’ll try and take my writing seriously if you take your art seriously too.’

She rolled her eyes. He put a hand in the air to stop her from speaking. ‘Come on, just say yes. It could be fun.’ He flashed her a smile and her heart fluttered. How had she ever not found him attractive? Now all he had to do was smile at her and she melted, became putty in his hands.

‘Fine, OK.’

He gave her hand a squeeze and they continued walking up the path. And she knew when they left the cemetery that she wouldn’t break up with him, that she had never truly planned to do so.

She was in too deep, and it would only end in disaster.

CHAPTER 20

Neda

Tehran, 1977

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Neda asked, her voice pitched too high, her hands firmly clasped together. They walked side by side through Park-e Shahr, stopping occasionally to observe the fanciful sculpted shrubbery, leafy trees and pink roses.

Hossein laughed, running his fingers through his hair as he pondered the question.

The smell of roasted nuts lingered in the air from the vendor they walked past. Neda’s eyes closed briefly as she inhaled the scent, reminding herself that the nuts often smelt better than they tasted.

It was the first time they had been alone, albeit they were not quite on their own in such a public space. There were other families, friends and couples all around them.

‘I don’t have one,’ he finally said.

‘Really? You must!’ She started to feel silly, childlike almost, for asking him. But she’d had no practice in talking to the opposite sex – apart from family members – and wasn’t quite sure what to say or how to act. So she feigned confidence.

The leaves crunched softly under their feet as they walked. Despite finding the noise satisfying, Neda longed to holdon to the last of summer, willing it to continue just a little while longer. She had gotten good grades and would begin working soon, perhaps continuing her studies the year after if she was granted a scholarship.

It was curious how quickly life changed. Numerous friends had become engaged to men from university. It was quite unlike the American movies they watched; in Iran it only took a few meetings to become engaged, and then married.

And Neda finally felt ready. The more she got to know Hossein, the more enchanted she became by him. She realised she would do anything to make him smile, to make him happy.

Children ran past them, playing tag, almost bumping into Hossein in the process.

‘OK, well, I guess if I had to choose a colour, I’d pick red.’

‘Ah,’ Neda said.

Hossein smiled. His arms swung as he walked, narrowly missing her. Part of her wanted to lean into him, and she had to scold herself for such thoughts. ‘Why just “ah”?’

‘Well, you could pick any colour in the whole world. Turquoise, silver, peach, magnolia – even plain old purple. But instead you picked red.’

‘It’s a classic colour.’ Hossein folded his arms in mock offence. ‘Well, what’s yours?’

‘Oh, there’re too many colours to choose from. I don’t really have a favourite.’ Her lips were held in a small smile as she repressed laughter.

‘Oh, you …’ Hossein touched her hand and brought it to his chest. ‘You’re infuriating, but somehow I love it.’

Love.

Neda was breathless. Just the touch of his hand on hers was enough to make her whole body shiver in a way it never had before. Their eyes connected for only a second before he let go and they continued walking past a large lake. Despite being artificial it was still beautiful, the sight of the water calming.

‘I’ve always wanted to ask you – why do you wear a hijab when so many of your friends don’t? Have you always worn it?’

She gave him her reasons, getting herself into knots when she tried to explain that whilst she was doing it to follow Islam as instructed in the Quran, she was also doing it for herself. When she said this he nodded, as though he understood perfectly.

‘You’re so brave,’ he said. ‘Unlike anyone I’ve ever known.’