In phonetics laboratory, I hide myself behind the last computer desk at the right end. I can't concentrate. I think of our professor's life. How old is she? About forty? She has got her PhD from Texas University. She is absolutely ugly. But I could say I like her though she is one of those who know nothing other than phonetics and phonology. And one of those souls who aren't after nothing new, who you could imagine has gotten used to jerking off, who you could confidently say had become one of those indifferent dead bodies moving around. One of those whose once-important-words are being erased from their lexicon over time, words like shame, enthusiasm and trust. Is this the natural process of life? What happens to the "doggone soul" of the yard, will he forget all the Beats and stuff? Will he get married and think he should make money and laugh at himself, and others, and when an enthusiastic young guy talks about literature, will he tease them, and belittle them and at the same time talk like he had once been Dostoyevsky of his time but that's just a game for the fool. Will he smirk and talk money? Will he, after he opened his book-café, with real faith, say to one new privy, "piss on it all, all the literature bullshit" and laugh? Will it happen to me too? Or to Mary? Or to Alireza?
Feeling tired and anxious, after syntax class, I hurry up to work, knowing Mary is at her dorm suite. I send Ali a message. He doesn't answer. He is in class, too. Mitra is also either teaching or studying. From Sunday to Wednesday she studies and teaches General English. So, before my own class starts a surge of bitter thrill rushes through my body. The glass of tea starts shaking in my hand but before other teachers notice, I put it on the table I am leaning to. The department manager, looks at me in the eye, you're not the always guy, she says. No, I'm good, I say, it's just a bit cold and I have my headaches again. Painkillers? No, thanks. You can cancel the second session if you want, she says, when others are gone and I'm picking up the heavy laptop bag. I feel the thrill again. No, no, I can handle it. And I enter my best class in which I teach some four great guys. Of whom one is our doctor and the other is a PhD candidate of art. One of our women is writing her thesis in Sociology and the other one is an ambitious girl studying Nuclear Sciences.
Their subject is Dreams. But I soon move on to the broader subject of Time. I ask them to imagine their lives, thirty years from now and to think if they regret anything by then. This is not the first time I teach this or ask my students this question, but I'm certain that this is the first time I think I'm not so confident anymore.
At the break time, looking at the thick sky of Tehran engulfing in dirty-dark-red, and thinking about how important literature really is, the door behind me closes and I hear Ms. Nazarzadeh's voice, what's it with you today? She asks curiously. I lean back at her office closet. A big what if, I say, What if after thirty years I look back and regret? Well, yeah. I often think about it too. Then she turns around but as her hand reaches the handle of the door, she says with trembling voice, would you wait for me after your class? Sure, I say, surprised.
In class, I feel as if they're trying to unconsciously deny that they're sure they'll regret something. I know they'll all regret something, I know everybody does, because even after class they're clinging themselves to reasons for never being regretful. And I know that for it's the first time they forget to ask my opinion.
It is five after eight and I'm waiting to see what's waiting for me. All the students are gone. I text Mary and let her know about it. Ok hon, she texts back.
Sitting on the bank stairs, tired and hungry, I'm smoking my third cigarette when she comes. She apologizes. Apology accepted but I'm hungry, I say. I always thought she had a house but it is as if today is the day of demolishing all my certainties. I know it seems rude but I can't stay here, she says, but if we get over to your house I'll cook or order something you like. That's ok, I say. And get a cab right away.
Eating our cheeseburgers at the dining table, I play my music selection. So far, all she has said is that she has seen her boyfriend, hand in hand, with another girl. I'm waiting for the rest of the cliché story. I have a four-piece sofa on which after dinner we sit. To finish the story, I ask her if she knows the girl. She shrugs, no, not anymore. What do you mean? I mean once she was my sister. My goodness. I ask her if she smokes. No. I think I have beer. Care for some? Yes, thank you. I pretend I'm not looking at her tears running down her cheeks. It occurs to me for the very first time how thin and short she is. She's saying something but I can't hear her from the kitchen, so I think I shout: my right ear is half-deaf. She looks surprised. But waits for me to give her, the beer and sit on my sofa. She apologizes. Apology accepted, I reply. It makes her laugh. A question is on the loop in my mind until I finally ask. Why me? Why are you telling me about this? I was hoping you wouldn't ask. The thrill is gone temporarily and with alcohol in my belly, I'm getting over-relaxed. She asks me to call a cab to the dorm, and as she is standing up she picks up her scarf and stands in front of the oval mirror of the wall next to the bedroom. You can stay if you want. With no change in her position, she says that she knows my girlfriend. Ok, I say, and? She's the sweetest and prettiest girl in the dorm. I know, but if you think so then… How come we aren't friends? Exactly. Because something called time exists.
