The Mismatch

by Sara Jafari

  “Studio Ghibli?”

  “You’ve never watched any Ghibli films?”

  “No…”

  “You need to.”

  “I’ll hold you to that then,” he said. “Is this what you want to do now we’ve graduated then? Work on your art?”

  Art. Again, she’d never been given permission to think of what she did as “art.” It wasn’t that her mum didn’t support her drawing—she liked to look at the pieces—but she was firmly set on drawing being a hobby. She sometimes made Soraya feel embarrassed even to think about it as something more than that. So Soraya didn’t.

  “I don’t really know. Part of me wishes I had chosen to study graphic design instead of English. I’d love to have a visual job. I keep applying for marketing jobs but I don’t even know what they would involve.” It was easier being frank with him. Perhaps because she knew their time together would be short-lived.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much if you don’t know what your plans are yet.”

  “Says the boy who knows exactly what his plans are,” she joked. He had told her he planned to do a master’s degree next year, provided he got enough funding.

  “I’m older than you, though.”

  “You are?” This was news to her.

  “I’m assuming you’re…what…twenty-one, twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I’m twenty-four. I did a different course for a year before I started this one, and took a few years after that to figure out what I really wanted to study. So, I’ve had more time to think about it.”

  Magnus explained that he’d studied law at Leeds but dropped out. “It just wasn’t me.” He shrugged. “It was hard telling my parents I was dropping out—especially because I’m the first in my family to go to university—but I knew I couldn’t spend another two years studying it. I probably would have failed, to be honest.”

  Soraya couldn’t imagine dropping out of university. In her family, once you committed to something you stuck to it, even if it turned out to be a huge mistake.

  “I thought it would be awkward being a bit older starting uni again, but I joined the rugby team and quite a few of them are older too, so it turned out all right.”

  “What does being part of the team entail, exactly?” she asked.

  He looked up at her and smirked. “Um, I don’t know, you play rugby?”

  “I get the feeling it’s like a brotherhood.”

  He snorted. “A brotherhood?”

  “Yeah. You always hang out in packs.”

  “Packs,” he repeated slowly, a small smile on his face.

  She worried that she’d said something stupid and began picking at the skin around her nails. Magnus put his hands over hers quite suddenly.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he said quietly.

  He played with her fingers as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Just his touch on her hand sent a flutter through her.

  She began to worry if the hair on her fingers was visible. If it was, he didn’t seem to care. He began stroking her palm, drawing patterns on it with his forefinger.

  If this was what he did to other girls, Soraya suddenly didn’t care because it was working. She had thought being so close to him would be repulsive, that him touching her wouldn’t be enjoyable, but she’d been wrong.

  “You say exactly what you’re thinking, don’t you?” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No,” he said. “I like it. It just catches me off guard. You’re not how I expected you to be.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He removed his hand from hers and ran it through his hair. It looked like he was trying to find a way to say the words without offending her. “You’ve got this exotic look about you. With your big dark hair and dark makeup. In lectures it would always be you and Oliver sat next to each other by the side, looking quite bitchy—no offense. You never talked in seminars, either. I figured, don’t take this the wrong way, that you’d be a bit stuck-up. But you’re all right.”

  She ignored his “exotic” comment. It was interesting how she could ignore problematic language when it came from someone she now found attractive.

  “ ‘All right’? Gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  And she did.

  “What about me, then? Did you ever think about me?” He gave her a look which made her laugh.

  “You just seemed like a typical lad.”

  “Great. Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Like, I’ll always remember you wearing running shorts in lectures in winter. You liked the attention it brought.”

  He was smiling. “Well, that’s an astute observation. It clearly caught your attention, though, no?”

  “Is that what you wanted? To catch my attention?”

  He looked down for a moment before speaking, which made her notice her quickening heart. “Maybe.”

  After two more rounds of soft drinks, Magnus offered to walk her home, an offer she might have found sweet if her mind wasn’t already reeling at the prospect of what was to come. It was abundantly clear why he wanted to walk her home.

  When they were outside her door she wished time would just move forward so she wouldn’t have to deal with the present. But she did. There she was, outside her flat, with Magnus.

  He was exactly a head taller than her. She had to lift her chin to look at him. She now felt tipsy in his presence, felt the warmth that usually came with alcohol, the way you saw people through different eyes when you’d been drinking. He wasn’t how she had imagined he would be. Whether he was pretending to be someone else didn’t actually matter in that moment.

  “So,” he said.

  “So,” she replied.

  His brown eyes bored into hers. Throughout the night she had avoided his gaze, but she returned it now, and allowed herself to be pulled in by him. Countless times she tried to explain to herself what happened next, but all she knew was that she slowly leant in. Deep inside her, she suddenly, desperately, wanted to feel his lips against hers. Wanted his arms to encircle her.

  Magnus leant in too, and their lips touched. He put his hand on the back of her neck, sending shivers through her, drawing her closer to him.

  And just like that Soraya Nazari had her first kiss.

  She got the impression that Magnus didn’t notice how awkward the kiss was, for her at least. As his lips touched hers, it was too late to decide between fight or flight. She had already selected fight when she leant in first.

  Rather than enjoy the moment, she remembered everything she had Googled about kissing. She puckered her lips and touched his hair, gripping his curls gently between her fingers. She opened her mouth slightly and was not surprised when his tongue entered it. She didn’t quite know what to do once it was in there. But she thought confidence was key.

  When she practiced biting his bottom lip, lightly, he groaned in response, and pulled her closer. He had no idea, it seemed, that this was her first kiss. And she would never tell him.

  She liked the way his arms felt when they were around her, and the way he cupped her face in his hands.

  When they separated from each other, she said, “Sorry, I haven’t kissed in a while.” She couldn’t help it; she felt as though she had to give a disclaimer, just in case he was smiling to stop himself from laughing, though a part of her doubted that.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. His eyes were fixed on her mouth and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip before he bent down and kissed her again. This time she let herself close her eyes, and follow his lead, finding that she was enjoying the experience.

  “Shall we go inside?” he said, his voice husky, as he nodded towards her flat.

  Caught up in the moment, she almost said ye
s. She had to remind herself that he wouldn’t be satisfied with kissing all night, and that was all she would do with him.

  “I want to take things slow,” she said. “I feel like no one does that anymore.”

  She saw something in his eyes, surprise and then something like a challenge being accepted.

  “Sure,” he said, before kissing her again. This time the kiss was deeper, one hand cupping her face, the other tightly holding her waist. And just when she began to melt into him, just when she fully let herself go, he abruptly pulled away, a smile on his face.

  “See you later then, Soraya.”

  It was only when she was back in her flat that she allowed the situation to fully sink in. Inexplicably, she wanted to see him again. Wanted to kiss him again. And perhaps, for the first time, she considered the very real possibility of going further.

  The atmosphere was heavy and humid. Disruption was stirring.

  Some people wanted change, though others, the minority, were happy with the way things were. There were many, many demonstrations demanding change for different reasons. Often the students at the University of Tehran would mask their demonstrations against the Shah with complaints about the high university fees. Iranians were generally inquisitive by nature, and each protest often became much larger than anticipated. It wasn’t just Neda who liked gossip.

  Despite this, when all around is slow-building chaos, the disorder becomes normalized, and so her mind was elsewhere, on more immediate concerns, like the fact that it was her final semester of university.

  The air-conditioning in the coffeehouse Neda sat in with her girlfriends made the atmosphere stale, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Her hijab hung loose, exposing the top of her head. Underneath the enclosing fabric she wore a long-sleeved striped T-shirt, with flared jeans and clogs.

  “I heard she was flirting with Tariq even though she’s engaged to Hamid…” one of her friends said.

  “Tariq! But she said she didn’t like him.” Neda leant forward, as though being closer to her friend would give her further insight.

  “You know Pouran, she loves the attention!”

  “Oh, stop looking so worried, Neda dear. It’s not a crime to flirt,” Shanauz said.

  Neda opened her mouth to say, Actually it is according to Islam, but thought better of it. She didn’t want to be the preacher of the group. Instead she drank her café glacé. The sweetness of vanilla ice cream mixed with strong, nutty coffee was a delight, and she had to force herself to slow down.

  A man made his way over to them and the group of women stopped talking. He had long shaggy hair and a well-groomed beard. “Ladies,” he said. “Do you mind if we join you?” Behind him a group of young men sat drinking their beverages. One of them smiled at the women, but the other two kept their gazes downturned as they took exceptionally long sips of their chai.

  Her girlfriends wagged their eyebrows, excitement stirring. Neda frowned, her small lips turned downwards. She was disappointed. She wanted to continue gossiping.

  “Oh, why not!” one of the women said, without consulting the group. Chairs were moved around and the four men joined them at their table. One man opened a pastry box to expose a dozen shirini, varying from nan-e nokhodchi to ghotab.

  One of the shyer men distributed the sweets to each person. It took him a while to get to Neda because each of the women said she didn’t want the shirini when they were first offered, to which the man insisted, and back and forth. Taarofing was something Neda could not stand, despite it being ingrained in Iranian culture. She wished instead people would do, and say, what they wanted without wasting time.

  Once the man was closer to Neda she recognized him from university.

  He had caught her eye on several occasions, smiling at her in the corridors. It was only when Shanauz had said “He’s always smiling at you” that she began to take proper notice though. Neda seldom smiled back. It was wrong, she thought, and what was he smiling at exactly? She didn’t want to encourage him; she wasn’t that kind of girl.

  One of his bouncy brown curls fell in front of his face and he laughed, powerless to brush it back with his hands full. He blew it away, and in so doing pulled a face that made Neda laugh too. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  He was in front of her now, smiling broadly. His teeth were small and white, crowded together but straight. They were like a child’s, the sight endearing. Neda picked up a kolompeh, a date-filled cookie, without fuss. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Merci,” she said, her eyes not meeting his. She had gained a tan on her face, causing the freckles across her nose to appear more prominent.

  “It’s my pleasure. What’s your name? I seem to see you everywhere.”

  Neda’s friend sitting next to her peered at the box of treats, desperate for a snack to go with her chai.

  “I’m Neda.” She felt her cheeks coloring under the attention.

  “I’m Hossein, nice to meet you.” And then he continued the rounds.

  “See,” the woman next to her hissed. “We told you he likes you. He played football professionally, you know.” Eyebrows were raised.

  “No! Not professionally?” They gave her knowing looks. Iranians liked to exaggerate, but all the same…a footballer. Neda wondered if her dad would approve, wondered what Hossein’s family were like…She forced herself to snap out of it. There were more important things in life than worrying about men, besides the small fact that he hadn’t even shown any real interest, let alone serious interest.

  And would he—or any man for that matter—support her wish to continue studying? For her to work and not be made to look after the house? She knew even the more modern men these days were not quite comfortable with their wives working, and she could never give up her studies.

  When they went back to the university lab, where Neda studied biomedicine, she knocked over a vial and it smashed on the floor.

  “Something or someone on your mind?” one of the girls asked. The others cackled.

  Neda rolled her eyes. As she cleaned up the glass with a dustpan and brush, she wondered what Hossein studied. She had never seen him or any of his friends working in the lab. And when her friend said he “played” football professionally, did that mean he no longer did? Did he give it up to go to university?

  “Shanauz,” Neda said, when she found her friend on her own in a corner. “What do you know about Hossein?”

  Shanauz smiled, put down the glass in her hand, and drummed her fingers on the countertop. “Oh, now you care.”

  “Come on, I’m just curious, you know me…”

  “Yes. That you actually love a gossip.”

  Neda smiled. “He seems to be everywhere lately.”

  Shanauz pushed her fringe out of her face. Her hair was thick, with choppy layers; eyes smoky, lined with kohl. Neda wished she knew how to do her makeup like that, without being laughed at by Maman.

  “He studies sports something or other and I think he got here on a scholarship. Though, if you ask me, his parents must be rich. Have you seen the clothes he wears? Always brands. Adidas, Puma, Levi’s…”

  “I don’t care about money, is he good?” Neda’s eyes were worried, her lips tight with concern, and she wasn’t quite sure why.

  “He went around and distributed shirini to us when he really didn’t have to,” her friend said. “I’ve never seen my baba do anything like that for my maman. Hossein seems like a modern man.”

  Neda remembered his smile, the floppy hair covering his face. She smiled at the memory, before pulling herself out of it and getting back to work.

  * * *

  —

  Weeks passed with other similar encounters, and each time he asked her more about herself. In their new routine, Hossein and his friends would join her friends during their breaks. The men always provided the group with shirini t
o go with their hot drinks, a fact Neda had noticed beginning to show on her waistline.

  “What do you want to do after university?” he once asked her.

  “I’d like to work for a while, complete a master’s, get a PhD maybe.” She wanted to see his reaction, expecting him to back away, realizing talking to her had been a mistake. Instead he nodded, impressed.

  “Being a doctor would suit you,” he said, reassuring her of something she realized she had been doubting. “I bet you have many suitors.” This comment surprised her.

  “Not particularly.”

  “That’s a yes then?” he said, peeking up at her as he sipped his coffee. She noticed he had strong hands, the veins pronounced, and the hair on his arms was dark. It was the first time she had observed a member of the opposite sex in such a way, and she imagined what it would feel like for him to hold her hand, found herself longing for him to do so.

  She pinched her leg under the table.

  Despite sitting in the coffeehouse with their friends, they had angled their bodies away from them and towards each other, so Neda could imagine they were having coffee alone. However, she still wanted their meetings to be somewhat halal with chaperones present, and having her friends close by was a comfort to her.

  “I’ve had two offers,” she said slowly. “But neither was quite right.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re very beautiful and intelligent,” he said. “You’re blushing! Don’t worry, we can change the subject.” He gave a soft laugh, which made her blush even more. When he laughed he had a perfect dimple in each cheek.

  Of the two men she’d received offers from, one vehemently did not believe in Allah and the other was twenty years her senior. They both approached her baba directly, and he made his disapproval of them very much known, which was a relief to Neda. The proposals went nowhere quickly.

  Eventually, she began asking Hossein questions.

  “How many siblings do you have?”