Mohammadreza Fayaz

The Winter Afternoon

As a ribbon of white cream spiraled onto the surface, she kept seeing Mansoor’s face—flat, drained—when he said, “We can’t go on like this. Let’s end it here.”

It was the first time she had seen him without that quiet brightness in his eyes. It unsettled her.

The cream spread unevenly. She tried to fix it, adding another layer, but only made it worse. Each tap of the spatula left shallow grooves across the surface.

She drove the spatula into the cake, then shoved it into the fridge.

The customer would not come back after this. It had been her first order.

For a moment, she wished she had been a better painter—good enough not to turn to baking for money, not to still depend on her father at twenty-eight.

Two hours later, she sat at the dining table. Across from her, her father carefully cut into a slice of the cake, guiding the knife as if precision might improve its taste.

She had already told him everything.

“It’s your choice, honey,” he said. “Still, I’m surprised. He seemed like a perfect match.” A pause, then a short laugh. “To me, at least.”

Sahar said nothing. Mansoor had lacked nothing. He and his father were both well-known surgeons. He was handsome, though that had never been the point—she had seen better. What drew her in was his intelligence: the way he seemed to know exactly what to say, what to do, what to withhold. No excess, no pressure. He was the first man she had gone far enough with to think about a ring.

The first time he tried to slip his arm around her, she felt it before he touched her—a sharp jolt along her spine. Her heart raced, not with excitement, but with something tighter, something that made her want to pull away. It happened again. And then once more, after which, he ended it.

Her father wiped his mouth with a crumpled napkin.

“All I’m saying is, you’re different from other girls—different from your own sister. You understand what matters—family, children. You’ve always respected our traditions.” He sighed. “But being selective shouldn’t turn into… this.”

While waiting for the customer, she stood in front of the mirror in her room and caught a glimpse of herself as if from years ahead—hair grey, skin slack, the house too quiet. Her father gone. Her sister settled with her last boyfriend somewhere far away, having many grandchildren.

Time, she had learned after her mother’s death, did not heal. It simply moved on.

Her phone showed six missed calls from the new customer—Nasrin. Before she could call back, the screen lit up again showing Nasrin’s name. Nasrin had forgotten about the cake. Forgotten she had already eaten it and now she was too shy to tell it over the phone. But Nasrin had arrived.

When she opened the door, she had no excuse ready, no explanation—only a weak, “Sorry”.

The silence that followed made Nasrin speak first.

“Is everything all right?”

Sahar wasn’t someone who cried easily. But something in Nasrin’s smile—its quiet acceptance—and in her soft, steady voice made something inside her soften.

Before Sahar knew it, her breath caught. Nasrin stepped forward and held her, the faint scent of jasmine rising between them—something warmer beneath it.

“You are not the first one telling me that. Many people say they clicked with me the first time we met.”

Nasrin said this while slightly out of breath, walking at a quick pace. The day before, she had invited Sahar to hike on a nearby trail. Even wearing a chador while climbing seemed unusual, but Nasrin didn’t resemble the strict religious women who corrected others in the street. She was four years older than Sahar. After school, she had not gone to university and had instead married her father’s best friend’s son. When Sahar asked about the separation, she only smiled.

“He had an affair. But I didn’t like him anyway. Now I want to raise my daughter alone.”

After a pause, she added, “Marriage is not a mandatory assignment. You do it when you feel like it. I’m qualified to tell you that.”

She laughed—high-pitched and loud—but somehow appealing to Sahar.

Talking to Nasrin brought a calm like the slow settling of Valium. They met every day at six in front of the bus station, then rode to the small square where the hiking trail began. After the hike, they stopped at a dingy restaurant to eat beans and fried eggs, surrounded by stocky men smoking hookah and staring at the only women there. They stayed until the old owner began watching them with visible impatience.

The first time Sahar went to Nasrin’s home, she thought she had the wrong address. It was a large mansion in one of Tehran’s best neighborhoods. After passing through a hall filled with Kerman carpets, antique decorations, and heavy furniture, she entered a nearly empty room.

A desk with calligraphy tools. A small wooden chair. A narrow bookshelf filled with religious texts. Everything else—the floral dresses, the jeans, the lack of a car—was a choice.

“The greatest pain in a person’s life can become the most precious gift, if they allow their eyes to open,” Nasrin said. “For me, that pain was my marriage. What I gained was my relationship with God—and this little angel.”

She pointed to her daughter, Zahra, asleep in Sahar’s arms.

That day was their first calligraphy lesson. Nasrin asked Sahar to write a few letters on glossy paper. The pen squeaked as Sahar drew a shaky “آ”.

“I swear I’m not this bad,” Sahar said, setting the pen down. Her hand was damp with sweat.

Nasrin smiled, took her hand, and guided it—one letter, then another—until Sahar relaxed and let her hand be guided by hers.

“Sorry for being so talentless,” she said, laughing, her face warm.

Afterwards, they prayed together. Sahar could not remember the last time she had prayed—perhaps high school, when it had been compulsory. Her father had always said God was an invention of crooked men, and her mother had remained uncertain—until her cancer diagnosis.

“You can always start again,” Nasrin said, handing her a white chador and a prayer rug scented faintly with jasmine. “It is never too late. God is forgiving.”

She stood in front of her and led the prayer.

When they finished, Nasrin moved her head gently in closing, then turned back.

“How did it feel?”

Instead of answering, Sahar stepped forward and embraced her. The tears came immediately. She could not describe it—only that something in her had gone quiet, as if the tension she carried had, for a moment, loosened in Nasrin’s arms.

The first time she saw Farhad, Sahar was teaching Nasrin how to bake carrot cake. He stood in the living room, watching. A thinner version of Nasrin—same eyes, same lashes, the same hesitant smile. He blushed, said nothing, until Nasrin mentioned the cake.

“I love carrot cake,” he said, then disappeared.

Sahar felt it coming—but not so soon.

“I’m only two years older than him, but I practically raised him,” Nasrin said later. “He’s not the type to chase women; he cares about work and family. That’s what matters. You need someone reliable—not endless conversations about the meaning of life.”

Nasrin’s certainty gave Sahar a reassurance she had never known—a quiet confidence that made marriage seem simple, almost effortless.

After the wedding, Farhad took her to the room he had reserved at the hotel. It was large, with a high ceiling and a view of the city. Heart-shaped balloons covered the space, and candles were placed everywhere, giving off the scent of jasmine.

“But what if one tips over and burns everything?” Sahar asked.

“It would make the night even more…” Farhad hesitated, searching for the word. His glasses fogged slightly; he seemed to shrink inside his suit.

“Memorable?” Sahar said, smiling.

With that same dreamy expression—dimples deepening—he looked more like Nasrin than ever. She stepped closer. Slowly, he wrapped his cold, trembling hands around her waist. It was the first time for both of them. Within moments, his hesitation gave way to urgency. The shift was abrupt, almost disorienting.

It was over almost immediately. Sahar lay still, unsure what to make of it. It wasn’t nothing—but it wasn’t what she had imagined either. Either people exaggerated, or something was missing.

Farhad lifted himself off her. When he turned on the light, she saw that he was crying.

“It’s… a cry of joy,” he said, his voice thick. “I worship you.”

When he lowered himself before her, she felt something close to pity—a feeling that would remain throughout their marriage. They tried again. He lasted longer this time. But she felt less. Afterward, he fell asleep almost immediately. Sahar lay awake, watching the thin lines of his body, the uneven rhythm of his breathing. Smoke curled slowly upward from the cigar he had left burning, as if something in him had finally been released.

Doubt began as a small stain in her mind, easy at first to ignore amid the changes in her new life. The first illusion was the promise of endless happiness—the stability marriage was supposed to bring. Then there was the freshness of the luxurious life Farhad had given her: the excitement of new foods, of distant countries, of cultures far removed from Tehran.

But the stain spread quickly, swelling until it felt as vast as the gray plume swallowing the city. Nasrin’s arms became the only refuge from that growing weight. She would sit beside Sahar, stroking her hair, both of them facing the giant window that covered an entire wall of the living room.

“Farhad pays all this money for a penthouse,” Nasrin said once, “and you barely have a view.”

It was winter. The pollution was so dense that the mountains and city remained invisible.

“You’re just confused, honey,” Nasrin went on gently. “Sometimes you need time to adjust. I’m sure you love him. You just need time.”

Sahar tried to breathe, but the scent of jasmine mixed with sweat, the warmth of Nasrin’s body so close to hers, broke something open. Tears came without warning.

There was no way she could tell her the truth—not even a fragment of it. Not how wrong she had been to believe that marriage would fix everything on its own. Three months passed, and nothing changed. She felt as distant from Farhad as she had the first time they sat side by side in a movie theater.

The worst moments were when he tried to be romantic—smiling awkwardly, taking her hands, walking backward toward the bedroom. With him, she felt safe enough to refuse, and when he insisted, her body refused for her.

She knew it couldn’t go on like this. Something would break. When it did, it was quieter than she expected. And when it did, it was quieter than she expected. One holiday morning, Farhad left early and returned with two cages, each holding a brightly colored canary. After that, his evenings changed. Instead of recounting his day and his business deals, he ate quickly and went out to the patio, talking softly to the birds.

Farhad didn’t hold grudges. That was his kindness—and his weakness. It took very little from her to bring him back to bed. A small gesture, a hint of softness. So she learned her limit: how far she could pull away without pushing him past his patience.

Their anniversary was in an old, elegant hotel in Paris.

Before getting into bed, she drank while he watched in silence. Alcohol had become part of their nights like this—something neither of them questioned. By the time only a thin line of champagne remained in the bottle, she felt the numbness she needed spreading through her limbs. She undressed, slow and clumsy, then slipped beneath the loosened blanket.

Detached, she registered the changes in his body—the result of pills and the weights he sometimes used. As he moved over her, whispering her name like a prayer, she turned her head toward the window. The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance, cold and indifferent. At some point, he stopped.

Perhaps he had grown used to her small resistances, her reflexive tension. Without them, something must have felt wrong. He got off her abruptly.

“You’re not here, Sahar. You’ve never been.” His voice was controlled, but strained. “I’ve been watching. I waited—because of Nasrin. But I won’t humiliate myself anymore.”

She said nothing.

“I can see it,” he continued. “The disgust. The way you go still, like a corpse.” A pause. Then, sharper: “Are you seeing someone?”

This was a new face, a new version of him. He had come prepared for this moment. But the suspicion—that she might be seeing someone—pushed everything further, sharpening it.

The glare in his small eyes, the flush spreading across his face, made him look like a judge delivering a verdict—declaring her guilty before an unseen audience. And with that, the guilt came. It pulled something up from deep inside her, something she had buried carefully: Mrs. Moniri’s face.

She stood frozen, her body slick with sweat as Mrs. Moniri stared straight into her eyes. Mrs. Moniri—the only woman Sahar had once imagined could replace her mother. Bahar, her daughter, had been Sahar’s closest friend in high school. The excuse for bringing Bahar home so often was math lessons—Sahar helping her pass a subject she had failed more than once. Mrs. Moniri had always been grateful, especially since they could not afford a tutor. And it wasn’t only that. Bahar had been folded into Sahar’s life—family gatherings, outings, movies.

Which made that day unbearable.

The worst day of her life was not when she said goodbye to her mother in the hospital. It was a winter afternoon. Bahar hadn’t spoken to her all day. Sahar waited for school to end, restless, ready to ask why. Then she saw Mrs. Moniri among the parents at the gate. Bahar stood behind her, peeking out, her eyes wide with fear. Sahar stepped forward, ready to complain, to laugh it off.

Mrs. Moniri didn’t return her greeting. She grabbed Sahar’s wrist—hard—and pulled her away into a narrow alley behind the school.

“Bahar told me you touch her. Kiss her. Do you know what that means?”

Sahar didn’t know. All she knew was the sudden, overwhelming sensation that had taken hold of her body—an itch, a heat she didn’t understand. It made her want to hold Bahar, to kiss her, to stay close. What else could it be but affection?

“It’s what perverts do,” Mrs. Moniri said. “People like that don’t get married. They don’t have children.”

Sahar began to cry so hard she could barely breathe.

What could be worse than that? Not marrying. Not having children. But nothing in her tears softened the woman’s face.

“Stay away from her. If you do, this stays between us.”

The woman who had once seemed like an angel now looked like something else. That day, Sahar locked herself in the bathroom and cried until her voice broke, swallowed by the rattling noise of a broken fan. And yet, it didn’t take long for her to convince herself. She wasn’t a pervert.

Since when was touching, kissing, loving a friend something shameful? It was a misunderstanding—nothing more. And she didn’t care enough to explain it to that terrifying woman. One day, they would see. She would marry. She would have a family. A happy one.

After the trip, Farhad filed for a default divorce and gave her a day or two to take whatever she wanted from the house. She handled it alone, reducing everything she wanted to keep to two briefcases. The rest was taken by an ecstatic old pawnbroker, who needed no bargaining to buy the furniture for almost nothing. All she needed to do was drink her tea from a Styrofoam cup and wait for Nasrin to come see her for the last time.

The pawnbroker limped from room to room, scanning for anything of value. He spotted Sahar and smiled.

“How about these, ma’am? What would you take for them?”

He lifted the empty birdcages in both hands.

“You can have them,” Nasrin said.

Sahar didn’t turn immediately. She waited, as if the scent of jasmine and something warmer might grow stronger behind her. Then she heard her name. They stood facing each other, unsure. They were not strangers—just two people who had not spoken since the divorce.

Sahar stepped forward first and held her tightly. Nasrin broke into tears. Sahar kissed her forehead.

“I’m so sorry, sister,” Nasrin said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Sahar replied, holding her face, looking into her wet eyes. She knew it was the last time she would see them this close.

In the dark, beside Farhad, she had learned a small trick—watching his face until it blurred, until it became Nasrin’s. Then she would close her eyes and imagine her instead.

“Please forgive us,” Nasrin whispered.

“Shhh…”

Sahar kissed her left cheek, then the other. Then, with her eyes closed, she pressed her lips to hers. Nasrin pushed her away at once—hard enough that Sahar stumbled back into the glass. There was no anger in her face. Something worse. Shock. Fear. She whispered a prayer and stepped back. Then turned and left.

Sahar remained by the window. For the first time in months, the city was clear. The gray veil had lifted after the night’s rain. Even in winter, the sunlight felt warm against the glass.

She stood there, looking out, as if seeing it for the first time.

END

Share your comments on our Community Billboard

Mohammadreza Fayaz previously wrote fiction in Farsi and has a novel published in Iran, which was shortlisted for two prestigious literary awards. However, the author's second novel was banned by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance there due to censorship. His short stories in English have been published in BigCityLit, Books ‘N Pieces, The Courtship of Winds, and Mobius.