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We were nervous with each other, touching gingerly at first, barely daring to reach out.
This night together was the culmination of years of yearning, years of longing looks and “accidental” brushes against each other.
Finally, the urgency of our situation overtook us and we lost our shyness. A few years before we fled Iran and the Revolution for the safety of London, my family had traveled from Tehran to one of Iran’s remoter provinces for a wedding.
The morality police were the last thing on our minds. We were distantly related to his family, who lived there, and S and I spent the week together.
So I contented myself with conversations that for many years encompassed everything, from politics to our mutual family to our hopes and fears for the future.
The hotelier looked at us, a young couple, traveling without a family in the deep of night. We tried to persuade him and he, a good citizen of the Republic, reported us immediately. Despite all the legislation, this is Iran and things rarely pan out according to the letter of the law.I learned to be subtle, and poetic—once, before I left Iran, I took a rose he had presented me with, the particularly fragrant damask rose from which rosewater is extracted and which in Iran is called the Mohammadi flower, and I dropped the bloom that bore my name into his bag so that he would discover its petals, half-dried and twice as fragrant, when he got home after I had gone.I wanted to say so much, but with words and caresses forbidden to me, I let the Mohammadi rose carry my feelings to him.But we had no way to reach out to each other surrounded as we always were by family.While everyone slept after lunch, we would sit in puddles of sunlight in the central courtyard of the house, the fragrance of the jasmine that climbed the walls washing over us, talking and laughing while I delighted in the honey-hues of his light brown eyes and longed to enfold him in my arms.