On another day, as I am walking through a street, a motorcycle roars and comes to a stop beside me.

“Taking a walk?” It is Rob’s voice. He is wearing a leather jacket and a crash helmet.

“Just wandering around.”

“I was thinking of taking a ride through the country.” He looks me in the eyes—an inviting stare.

I try to assess my feelings. What do I have to lose?

“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle. It might be fun.”

I get on, wrapping my arms around his waist. Gravel pops from under the wheels and I think of bubbles bursting. The wind blows through my blouse and hair and I feel like laughing.

In a secluded, wooded area outside of Concord, he stops his motorcycle. We sit side by side on a grassy spot and he takes out a marijuana cigarette, already rolled. We smoke until the birds begin to sound more melodic; the sun seems softer, teasing our skins, the sky mellower and more blue. My arm, where he has held it, is pulsing. I watch his eyes going over me. He pulls me to himself and we kiss, a long easy kiss.

He lies on the grass and I lie down also, putting my head on his arm.

An hour or so later, going back, he says, “I think I know a little about your body now, how to turn it on. It will be easier next time.”

Next time. The thought of a continuity with him destroys my lightheartedness.

“You’re so quiet,” he says.

The reality around me begins to blur; Tony, Rob and Jane, my co-workers, becoming clumsy sketches of themselves, faded, without substance. Tony and I stop talking, talk in a real sense. I wake in the middle of the night sometimes and just sit and stare into the dark ….

“You should see a psychiatrist,” Tony says.

I shrug. “I don’t want to.”

12

Manijeh had said I could leave any time. I got into my regular clothes and began to pack.

There was a knock at the door and Dr. Majid came in.

“So you’re leaving,” he said, sitting down on one of the chairs. “May I ask you something—what is it that troubles you? An ulcer is a bodily signal of the distress of the soul.” He spoke seriously in the manner of a priest.

“Nothing specific, everything,” I said, sitting on a chair also. “I just had not faced up to things. I had let things go and pile up.”

“Is your husband an American?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought so,” he said. “That automatically compels you to go back to the United States.”

“Him and my work,” I said, without conviction. I was no longer sure what I was going back for.

“I guessed you’d have some kind of a career. What do you do?”

“I’m a biologist. Strictly research work. I used to think I’d hate teaching—public speaking. I’m not sure of that now.”