Free 53 Letters For My Lover by Leylah Attar

nailed coffins.
    “Hafez—” I tried to speak.
    “Do you think I didn’t know?” whispered Hafez. “What a farce the two of you played all these years.”
    The sound of Pedar’s palm stinging Hafez’s cheek echoed in the ensuing silence. Ma’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
    “Here.” Hafez picked up the phone and handed it to Pedar. “Call them. Tell them your son just killed your lover.”
    June 10th, 1983
    Bob Worthing had a small home office where I spent the day taking calls, booking appointments and looking after the paperwork. He offered me the job after the investigation cleared Hafez and me of Pasha Moradi’s death. The police ruled it as accidental, and our actions as self defense. Bob Worthing’s statement, about what he had witnessed of Pasha Moradi’s behavior, may have helped. Working for him was not something I did just for the pay check; it was also an expression of gratitude for his kindness. Not only did he introduce me to his answering machine, his fax and his typewriter, but also his home, his wife and daughter.
    “He’s gone?” Jayne padded into the office with her sleep-ruffled hair, tank top and shorts.
    “Your father’s at a lunch meeting.”
    “But it’s barely—” She looked at her watch. “Oh.”
    It was hard not to like Jayne. She sat across from me, legs drawn in, and rested her chin on her knees.
    “Ryan’s going to be here in a few weeks.” She grinned.
    “You must be excited about seeing your brother again.”
    “Yes...” She hesitated, then trailed off with a sly smile.
    “But...?”
    “But I’m also looking forward to seeing his friend.”
    “Ah. The friend.”
    “I know, I know. You’re sick of hearing about him, but Shayda, he’s soooo dreamy.”
    “I’ve told you before Jayne, he’s too old for you,” her mother said from the kitchen.
    Jayne rolled her eyes. “He’s twenty one. How is that too old? And can you not eavesdrop?” She got up and shut the door. “Swear to god, she hears everything.”
    “Not everything.” Elizabeth opened the door and peeked in. “I’m just saying. You’re in high school, he’s in college. Plus I don’t see him going for his best friend’s sixteen year old sister.”
    “Seventeen!” Jayne folded her arms and looked at me. “What’s the age difference between you and Hafez, Shayda?”
    Six years. But I didn’t want to get involved. “I think I’ll have my lunch now,” I said.
    “Ooh, that looks good.” Jayne eyed the greek food I’d brought from Farnaz’s restaurant.
    “Jayne. That’s rude,” said her mother.
    “No, it’s fine. Would you like some?” I asked.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Really, Jayne.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie, Shayda, because I insist you join me for lunch.”
    “Shepherd’s pie sounds lovely,” I replied.
    I was tired of eating leftovers from the restaurant. Hafez and I worked there at night. Behram and Farnaz had been kind enough to let us use the store room after we locked up. We planned on moving out as soon as Hafez found a job.
    I finished at Bob’s and got to the restaurant by 6 p.m. Locking the restroom door behind me, I freshened up for the evening shift. Washcloth, soap, warm water. On Mondays, when the restaurant was closed, I washed my hair in the sink. I still saw Pasha Moradi every time I looked in the mirror, his twisted face staring over my shoulder. I put on my apron and took a deep breath, thankful that the restaurant was still empty. It wouldn’t be long before the Friday night crowd started coming in.
    The door chimed as I was setting up the tables.
    “Hi, Farnaz,” I greeted her.
    Then I saw the woman standing behind her.
    “Ma!”
    She held out her arms.
    In the three months since Hafez and I had walked out of the apartment, she’d shrunk. Her eyes were deep hollows and the lines on her face were etched deeper. I pulled out a chair and sat her down.
    “I’ll be in the kitchen,” said Farnaz,