Free Together Tea by Marjan Kamali

The hyphen was hers—a space small, potentially precarious. On the hyphen she would sit and on the hyphen she would stand and soon, like a seasoned acrobat, she would balance there perfectly, never falling, never choosing either side over the other, content with walking that thin line.
    But to now jump off the hyphen and return to Iran required vaulting over a few hurdles. She had to get her paperwork straight and trust that despite some horror stories of Iranian exiles going back and being imprisoned, she’d be safe. More important, she had to convince her parents that their daughter’s going to the Islamic Republic for winter break was an absolutely brilliant idea.

Chapter Nine

    Coffee Shop Nothings
    G rab a coffee?” Sam asked.
    â€œI am sorry?” Darya replied, taken by surprise.
    â€œWanna get coffee? After class.” Sam shrugged. “Now that we’ve . . . we’ve . . . taken our spreadsheet knowledge to another level.”
    He was trying to seem relaxed, Darya could tell. Mimicking their teacher to make her laugh. He liked it when she sighed in the middle of class, when she found Miranda Katilla a little too ridiculous. She could tell he enjoyed her reactions. It felt like they were teenagers. It felt like the beginning of something, when really, if one thought about it, what beginning was left for her? Except maybe the beginning of an ulcer or a tumor or gout.
    â€œI know a coffee shop around the corner . . .” Sam continued.
    â€œPlease do not say it starts with ‘S’ and ends with ‘bucks’ because . . . that place is not my cup of tea,” Darya blurted. She didn’t mean to be rude but the Americanization of traditional Italian coffee into something so commercialized had always bothered her.
    â€œOh, this place does not start with ‘S.’ It’s a small mom-and-pop coffee shop. They serve other hot beverages too, you know.”
    Parviz was expecting her. What would she tell him? Is this what it had come to? Going to coffee shops with Sams from basement classes?
    â€œI must call my husband,” she said. “To let him know I will be late.”
    â€œSounds good,” Sam said. Cool dude, guitar man, laid-back Sam. Nothing seemed to rile him.
    The pay phone receiver on Queens Boulevard was cold, and Darya didn’t have a quarter so Sam had to dig deep into his front jeans pocket for one. She watched his hand, then looked away. She blushed as she took the quarter. She dialed the number, then heard Parviz’s loud “ALLO!”
    â€œParviz Joon, it’s me. I will be a little late coming home tonight. I’m going out with, with some classmates,” she said in Farsi. Sam waited outside the pay phone booth, rubbing his hands together in the cold.
    â€œIsn’t that wonderful, Darya Joon? You’re making new friends. I told you you would. Go. But I will pick you up. It’ll be too late to walk home.”
    â€œNo, no, don’t pick me up.”
    â€œI will not have my wife walking home late in the cold. I will pick you up. How much time will you and your friends need? Nine thirty? Is that good? I will pick you up at nine thirty. Where are you going? To Starbucks, probably, no? I will pick you up at nine thirty at Starbucks?”
    â€œYes,” Darya said because Parviz was so protective, and she knew he’d worry if she said she’d walk home and because her head felt dizzy and she didn’t know what else to say.
    SAM ORDERED SOME COFFEE THAT had about six names using the Italian words that seemed required in this godforsaken place. He’d only said “cool” when Darya told him that her husband insisted that they go to Starbucks and that he’d pick her up at 9:30. He ordered Darya some tea, and she pretended not to be disgusted by the leaf-filled bag floating in lukewarm water. They sat by the window, and part of Darya felt as if she were in a